


The self is not so weightless.

by AnnaBolena



Category: The Terror - Fandom
Genre: AU - Canon Divergence, And history, Canon Divergent after Ep1, Class Differences, Getting Together, Hodgepodge of my favourite headcanons from book, M/M, Pining, They’re cold and they’re gay, show, the ill effects of lead poisoning, you know cause they’re all repressed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 68,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26817670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: Day breaks over Greenhithe as surely as it does over all of England. Months from now, they’ll grow tired of never ending sunlight, he expects, only to miss it terribly some months later still, shrouded in darkness for weeks on end. He knows what to expect, but he doubts many aboard do.a.k.a. The Franklin Expedition with slightly less hubris and a little more luck.
Relationships: John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Thomas Armitage/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 127
Kudos: 93





	1. MacDonald

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to @shitpostingfromthebarricade for beta-ing this piece without having ever seen the show/read the book and somehow not going ape-shit when I introduce a new Thom, Will or Harry every two sentences. You're the best. 
> 
> Anyway, this is me coming back into fandom after posting three (3) one-shots with a wholeass rewrite of the show. Hey...hi...how y'all doing?

_18_ _th_ _May, 1845 – Greenhithe_

He wakes to warm pillows and the sun shining on his face, though he could swear he drew the curtains shut last night. Beside him, the bed bears some traces yet of another’s company, lingering bits of warmth and a scent which has scarcely begun to disperse, but the company in question is nowhere to be found. Alexander rights himself, stretches, and begins to make use of the basin brought to the room precisely for this purpose. The water is cold. _Best get used to that again now,_ he thinks with some mirth. _Been basking in the warmth for too long, and anyway, it’ll only grow colder from here on out_. 

“Annie, is that you?” he wonders, too busy scrubbing his eyes to have a glance at the door creaking open behind him, listening instead for familiar steps on the floorboards.

“I’d like to see you amply provisioned on your journey.” That’s Annie, true enough. So far from home, their shared accent marks her out strongly in a town predominantly English. Something rustles, perhaps the provisions alluded to.

“We’ve quite a large stock already, with more arriving today,” laughs he, rubbing at his face with a towel before turning expectantly to face her. “Am I presentable, do you think?”

“Far from it,” she tuts, determinedly gathering her skirts and stepping back into his space as if she was as loathe as Alexander to have left it in the first place. It begins with a pretence of propriety, but soon it becomes evident to the both of them that she wishes to caress him only for the sake of it – embed all possible knowledge of Alexander into her mind. He did much the same last night. “There,” she says softly, dropping her hand with some reluctance. “Now you’re fit to be seen, at least, after I’ve examined you so.”

“And the diagnosis, Doctor Camden?”

“Hearty and hale, as a gentleman ought to be.”

“But soon to be poorer for missing you,” he tells her, squeezing her hand tightly. “Do they know you’ve come to see me?”

_It had appeared as something of a surprise, when he’d seen Annie amongst those on shore, waving her finely monogrammed handkerchief at him, laughing. How his heart had leapt from his chest then! He’d hastened below deck, wasting no time seeking out Captain Crozier to request a short trip to shore. The man had been far too busy scowling at maps and Alexander far too high in his esteem to question his motivations; with only a by-your-leave, he’d been on his way down the plank._

_“Is that your wife, over there?” Lieutenant Hodgson had asked him with an ungentlemanly, all-too-knowing smile on his face, pausing his tally of their supplies - still being hauled on board - to crane his neck and get a good look at Miss Anna Camden of Aberdeen. Alexander, not used to having his integrity questioned so directly, had been quite at a loss as to a proper response._

_“Be sure to give Mrs. MacDonald our fondest regards,” Lieutenant Little had said with a face of sincerity, foregoing all guile for Hodgson’s double helping. “Down below, George, Captain Crozier has summoned us.”_

_Alexander had soon forgotten all about this exchange, at the very latest when Annie had fallen into his arms._

“George brought me here,” admits Annie, with a guilty smile. “Said he couldn’t bear my pining – I’ve just run into him downstairs. He’d like to treat you to breakfast, if you can spare the time.”

“We’ll be off tomorrow, I’m not expected on deck until the afternoon so that Doctor Peddie may attend the officers’ dinner,” he assures her, stroking her delicate wrist, still enclosed in his grasp. He draws it up to press a kiss to gentle skin. “What of your parents?”

“They suspect nothing – George told them he’d be taking me to London for a few days, to see Liston operate. Mother nearly fainted, but it amused Da, and so he gave us leave.”

“We’re a way from London.” 

“Aye,” agrees Annie, “and a fair bit more from Edinburgh, wouldn’t you say? They won’t know a thing, and George won’t give us away.”

She holds out his waistcoat to him, hands working deftly at his buttons once it slips over his shoulders. “It’s true what they say of him,” she recounts, admiringly. “Doctor Liston, I mean: he really is the fastest knife in the West End.”

“You saw him operate?”

“Aye, wouldn’t miss it for the world. George has been in correspondence with him for a few months now, they’ve been talking about knife cleaning, so they have. Snuck me in, dressed as a man and all.”

“I should have liked to see that.” 

“Might prove useful, knowing how to amputate a leg in a minute or two,” she concurs with a smile. “Suppose you’ll have to learn on your feet. I dare say I needn’t urge you to be careful? One wrong cut can kill you as surely as your patient.”

He kisses her palm in response, lays it against his cheek for a spell.

“Annie,” he begins, looking at her rather earnestly. “I wouldn’t have you alone with the aftermath of – well, of last night. You know well as I that there might be a child.”

“I might hope so,” she grins, wicked.“It would be something to remind me of you whilst you’re shivering in the cold or lounging in Oahu, flirting around and taking in the sun - some incentive for you to return to me.”

“There’s a church,” he begins anew, touched by what amounts to a declaration from her side, “Just around the corner. George is here, you said, so we’d have a witness, even.”

“Och!” Annie withdraws her hand, swats at him. “You’d have us elope!”

“Should please your parents more than a babe born out of wedlock, should it not?”

“They say men go to sea to escape from their wives but come back for sweethearts.” Annie pouts, turning away from him to glare dolefully at the window, as though it is at fault for Alexander’s imminent voyage. Even in anger, she is the most striking young woman he has ever met, not only for her wondrous eyes and long, curling tresses. 

“You would be wife and sweetheart both,” Alexander points out, recapturing her hand and pressing more kisses to it. “My own darling – do you doubt it?”

“I’d rather you came back for me,” settles Annie. He will not press her unduly, but the offer has to be made, at the very least, or he should feel very ill at ease boarding _Terror_ and absconding into the ice. 

Another knock at the door swiftly admits George, whose grin rivals his sister’s in wickedness. What a pair the two of them are! When he left her in Edinburgh, never in a million years had he dared hoped she might follow him to see him off.

“Get yourself sorted, then, Alex – my stomach is rumbling for something substantial. It’ll digest itself soon if not given proper nourishment.”

Annie helps him with the uniform coat, much like a wife would. Even if she’s not to be persuaded to the threshold of a church today, she holds the position firmly in his heart, all the same. “A fine figure you make. Very respectable.” As she pronounces this judgement, her hands smooth down his lapels.

“Positively dashing,” George drawls, glancing at his pocket watch. “I’m afraid we’ve no time to dawdle, many appointments to keep today – is it to be the altar or the apothecary, my dears?”

Annie gapes at him, swats with her parasol, chases her brother around the room a good while. “Fiend!” She ruffles her nose primly upon giving up, then says: “Neither, if you please.”

“You’ll do Da’s head in, you little wildcat,” tuts George, tugging on a strand of dark curls, disorderly after their light-hearted chase.

“ _Da_ ,” insists Annie, snatching back her parasol before crossing to give Alexander a much-desired kiss, “will come to love Alex as surely as I have.”

+

Doctor Stanley stands on the docks, watching the marines coordinate the supplies. His almost pathognomonic frown is settled firmly, and it only barely allows enough movement for the nod he gives Alexander in greeting. “I hear congratulations are in order,” he says, sounding profoundly displeased.

“On your nuptials,” continues Stanley, a bored tone attempting to mask the innate curiosity that plagues all in the medical field to varying extent, when Alexander gives no satisfying answer. Stephen S. Stanley is not half so good at feigning neutrality as he probably counts himself. 

“Ah,” Alexander nods, smiles. “Thank you kindly.”

He ignores that no congratulations have been extended as of yet.

“Though I seem to recall you were not engaged when last we met, at the admiralty function in April.”

“You recall correctly,” he agrees. It is easier, Alexander has learned, not to dispute thinly veiled accusations, not until they are directly made, and someone demands satisfaction. People are more likely to forget about inconsistencies if you do not show yourself perturbed by a connection made. He applies this rule equally to patients and friends, supposes it might work on Stanley, too, though he is neither to Alexander.

Case in point: Doctor Stanley makes only a non-committal noise before switching subjects. “I’ve not yet spoken to Doctor Peddie on the nature of our supplies.”

“They are woefully late,” contributes Alexander to a litany of complaints yet to be made. “We might be further delayed.”

“Commander Fitzjames is at Mister Goldner’s heels, or so I hear. We should have the full eight thousand on board this afternoon.” Stanley waves a dismissive hand. “What concerns me is the lemon juice - the durability of it more so than the quantity.”

“I’ve read that it might be beneficial for the upkeep of potency to freeze it.”

“Learned that on your whaler, I imagine?”

He ignores the jibe: it stinks of arrogance, and he’d hardly earn acclaim for explaining just where he learned this, at whose suggestion he grew willing to give it a try. Foreign experiments are of little concern to a man such as Stanley, risible at best and wilfully damaging at worst. Most, Alexander assumes, fall somewhere in between, to the estimable Doctor Stanley.

“We weren’t ever without fresh meat for very long, on the _Bon Accord_.” Alexander opts for hope in the face of concern. “Sir John is confident that will not be the case here, either. If we can reasonably expect to be frozen in only one winter, we need hardly worry about the juice.”

“And there is bound to be fruit in Oahu, fresh meat along the way,” Stanley agrees. “Tell Doctor Peddie I wish to speak with him. Good day, Doctor MacDonald.”

+

Mister Hornby greets him collegially as he boards _Terror_ on his way down to rendez-vous with Captain Crozier, offering to inform the Captain of his return and save him a trip. Alexander is grateful, unwilling to risk inquiries into conjugal life from the wardroom officers just now, knowing without a doubt that Lieutenant Hodgson would pry at the earliest opportunity. His heart feels heavier already for missing Annie – for not knowing if he is to be a father nine months from now.

“John.” He prods the sleeping doctor awake when he reaches the sick bay, gently shaking him by the shoulder. Doctor Peddie startles, bleary eyes glance up at Alexander, before he rubs them into wakefulness, reaching for his glasses. The poor gentleman’s myopia will certainly trouble him when the ice freezes his glasses to his face – he’ll have to go without, then, or tear his skin clean off.

“Yes?”

“Doctor Stanley has requested you confer with him,” Alexander relates. “About the provisions, he says. There’s cause for concern, it would seem.”

“Miserable old badger,” huffs Peddie, a sailor, through and through. They are almost of an age - less than a year separates them - but you would not know it from the man’s reclusive behavior, more befitting of a man of eighty than eight-and-twenty. “Wants an excuse to brag about China again, no doubt.”

“He’ll have occasion enough for it,” shrugs Alexander. “I hear Sir John is hosting aboard _Erebus_ , tonight. No doubt the invitation includes you.”

John makes a face at him, full of distaste. “You go in my place, Alex,” he orders. “Tell them I’m far too busy examining the men.”

“They’ll never believe it, John” muses Alex. John Smart Peddie, a man of science before he is one of affability; he’s spent his life cooped up for far too long with only his microscopes and the world under their lenses to care overly much for the company of officers that aren’t only called such out of courtesy, the same now as he ever was during their college days in Edinburgh. He suffers Alexander only for his competence and their shared interests.

“I’ve fallen terribly ill, then,” he suggests.

“They might send Doctor Stanley directly to you, in that case, to lend a healing hand.”

“Blast it.”

Someone hesitates at the entrance to _Terror’s_ sick bay, hidden only by curtains from where the men are to sleep come nightfall. Hurried steps come to an abrupt halt. The reluctant face of Harry Peglar, Captain of the Foretop, pokes past the curtain, his body following shortly, almost like an afterthought. 

“Evening, gents,” he nods, pleasantly. “One of the ship’s boys – a first-timer on the masts, doesn’t quite know what he’s about yet – cut his hands sliding down the ropes. Won’t take a minute, but I’d rather someone look at it.”

Peddie’s posture eases, and he nods, transforming at once from reluctant would-be dinner guest to commendable surgeon. “How right, Mister Peglar! We ought to have a thorough look at it, ensure the wound doesn’t fester—”

Already he’s gathered his supplies, glancing over his shoulder at Alexander. “It appears I won’t be dining aboard _Erebus_ after all.” He has the gall to sound disappointed, enough that Peglar, pleasant man that he is, attempts to be reassuring.

“Oh, no need to trouble--”

“Nonsense, nonsense, the lad needs looking after, you said. Lead the way, Mister Peglar.”

+

Sir John Franklin is a portly man whose scowl is etched into his face, his eyes made ridiculously wide by the permanent downward pull of his lips. Occasionally he is given to excessive nodding, and it gives him the appearance of a caricature. They whisper it of him in London already - loud enough that word of it has reached Alexander’s ears, who is a comparative nobody of too little consequence for the Lords of the Admiralty to mind their tone in his vicinity. ' _The man who ate his own shoes'_ is amongst the kinder things said of him.

“—it will be something of a homecoming, for my family.”

“What was that, Graham?” Sir John has something expectant about his face, leaning away from whatever Commander Fitzjames had whispered to him just seconds before.

Gore, First Lieutenant on Erebus, turns with a genial smile from his animated conversation with Lt. Le Vesconte, to regale the table: “I was only telling Dundy here about my grandfather, Sir.”

“Ah, a fellow John, was he not?” The expedition leader drums his fist on the table. “If memory serves he sailed with Captain Cook?”

“That’s correct, Sir,” smiles Lt. Gore, “Until the very end.”

“Let us hope,” snorts Captain Crozier as he signals Mister Hoar for another helping of brandy, “that you will fare differently than Cook in your encounters with the natives.”

“I confess I’ve always had a morbid curiosity to see those islands,” Gore sounds wistful, laughing as he spears some of the fine mutton Sir John has sponsored tonight. “It is of great interest to me, to understand their people.”

(“More peas for you, Doctor?” the steward asks politely, after acknowledging that Alexander has flagged him down with two raised fingers.

“Does the body good, thank you, Hoar,” he confirms.)

“I do hope that is not your sole reason for joining the discovery service, Graham,” Commander Fitzjames teases. “We are a long way from Oahu yet.”

“In a year, then!” Gore lifts his glass for a toast, jubilant. “Two, at most, I say, and we shall have ample opportunity to walk all the sandy beaches we could ever wish for!”

Cheers are echoed around the table, fists drummed on the fine, polished wood of Sir John’s dinner table.

“I should think,” cautions Lt. Fairholme, the youngest at their table and indeed one of the youngest officers on this voyage, after some of the merriment and laughter have worn off, “we might take longer than that. Master Reid supposes that, all told, we are woefully late in the year to depart.”

Someone clucks their tongue – Le Vesconte, Alexander suspects. Commander Fitzjames shakes his head. “Oh, do try and be more optimistic, Walter, _really_.”

“Ah, but you forget,” Le Vesconte’s voice turns teasing, a familiar spiel to all who have known the genial officer longer than the span of a conversation, “one does not make Lieutenant within six years with nothing but a sunny disposition to lead the way. To be sure, it was such judicious caution that catapulted our Walter up the ranks so swiftly!”

“Six years?” Fitzjames pretends as though he does not know this, eyes going wide, playing at admiration, whistling through his teeth easily. “My, Dundy, that speaks of considerable talents, I say!”

“Unfathomable to us naive hopefuls is the promise in our dear Walter!”

The young Lieutenant’s face goes rather red, he squirms, until he bursts out, finally: “I really do not know why you insist on making such a big deal of it, Dundy, when I hear that Little over here made Lieutenant before he had served a full five years.”

Lieutenant Little had hitherto been quietly eating away at his bit of beef tongue, eyes either downcast or quietly stealing glances at Captain Crozier to his right, but he looks up now, startled at being addressed. His eyes widen, and as his lumbering form straightens and his shoulders roll back to a square perfectly framed by his golden epaulettes, it becomes apparent to Alexander just how stately a figure Terror’s first lieutenant cuts. Crozier’s second is the only other officer to accompany him tonight, though doubtless Misters Hodgson or Irving would have been happier about an invitation; they really could not abide leaving Terror without any of her wardroom officers the night before she is to set sail.

“I hear,” Sir John says as he leans forward, intrigued, “that you have rather an illustrious pedigree yourself, Edward.”

“The Littles of Middlebrook are hardly that, Sir.” Little’s lip quirks as he speaks, good-naturedly. Swiftly, he once more lowers his gaze, resumes cutting at his meat.

“Did not your father sail on the _Audacious_?”

“He did, yes.” Little blinks once, twice, before he continues. “Under Captain Parker.”

“And was Captain Parker not pivotal during that Glorious First of June?”

“My father was merely the purser aboard _Audacious_ , Sir.” Little shakes his head, motions for water, and bids Hoar serve some to Crozier as well. His brow is furrowed, there is a pinched look about his face before he wrings an answer out of himself: “I cannot recall that he ever spoke of ‘94.”

He lowers his knife before he picks up his fork, chewing slowly even as all eyes are trained expectantly on him, then posits, “Did not Lieutenant Le Vesconte make Lieutenant within five years also?”

The man thus addressed chuckles, waves a dismissive hand about. “A misprint in the chronicle, my friend,” he admits, rueful. “I’m afraid ‘twas six for me, as well- almost seven, come to that.”

“Hardly cause for shame,” returns Little, inclining his head at the man respectfully.

“And rightly earned!” adds Commander Fitzjames, always keen to speak. “Why, was it not you and our good old Hodge who were promoted together? Oh, do tell us the story, Dundy, do!”

“I say!” protests Le Vesconte, hands raised in surrender, “George will tell it a hundred times better, and then you’ll be sorry for my having spoiled it, I assure you. That is a story best saved up for rainy days, my friends.”

“We’ll get it out of you yet, Dundy,” Lt. Gore laughs, heartily. “For another glass of brandy, surely!”

Voices raise in agreement, cajole, prod, but to no avail: Lieutenant Le Vesconte insists it will not be tonight. “A man must retain an air of mystery about him!”

“Nonsense!” Cries Fairholme, agitated. “You’ve been prodding me for stories relentlessly since March.”

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Sir John placates, clearing his throat, perhaps uncomfortable with so boisterous an atmosphere he had no hand in creating, “let’s not get carried away: our brave man will have his moment. I’ve no doubt we’ll tire of his stories, so often will he have occasion to tell them until we have found the passage.”

“I am wounded, Sir,” insists Le Vesconte, good-natured, “that you think I could not invent more fantastical stories as we sail further north.”

“Oh, I apologize, Henry.” Sir John purses his lips. “Your mortal wounds notwithstanding, I dare say tonight has been most pleasant for all involved, hm? Shall we retire? We have an early start tomorrow, God willing.”

+

Day breaks over Greenhithe as surely as it does over all of England. Months from now, they’ll grow tired of never ending sunlight, he expects, only to miss it terribly some months later still, shrouded in darkness for weeks on end. He knows what to expect, but he doubts many aboard do. 

“We’re off for Stromness, then, Doctor MacDonald,” says Lieutenant Irving, leaning over the railing beside him, having appeared out of thin air only a heartbeat earlier. You’d never know him for the youngest Lieutenant _Terror_ has to offer were it not for some residual naivety that clings to the man’s smile, as surely as the crustaceans must to _Terror’s_ hull. The cold will rid the ship of such unwanted passengers soon enough, but it is not at all certain what it will take from a man. 

“Might have saved ourselves the trip to London, aye,” Alexander nods, rubbing his chin. He’d cut himself while shaving this morning, hand unsteady with excitement and Mister Armitage nowhere to be found. His left shirtsleeve now bears three red dots, which he has been doing a better job of ignoring than the persistent itchiness of his face. 

“Could have come straight from Edinburgh and had a cheaper fare, I wager,” Irving agrees, throwing him a smile. “You’re an Aberdeen man, is that right?”

“Laurencekirk,” he corrects, rolling his shoulders. “You hide your accent well, Lieutenant Irving.”

“Call me John, please, Doctor.”

“Very well, John.”

“I find it to be easier on the men,” Irving shrugs. “Can’t pretend they didn’t understand my orders that way, right?”

Easier on his career as well, no doubt, but Irving has not been Lieutenant for two years yet, he recalls. “Reasonable.”

He nearly stumbles then as _Terror_ rides the river uneasily, and he frowns at his mishap. 

Irving laughs, “Still getting your sea legs, then?”

“Something like that, to be sure.”

The young lieutenant strokes _Terror’s_ railing, fondly. “Perhaps she’s jealous you went to see your wife the night before you wed yourself to the sea again, eh? _Tuig thus’ an t-eathar, 's tuigidh an t-eathar thu_.”

“I never thought the meaning to be quite so literal,” Alexander huffs drily. Irving claps him on the shoulder, good-natured, before he turns back to his duties, voice clear and pronunciation crisp. The men jump in line without a moment’s hesitation. 

As a bright, fiery sun begins its climb up the morning sky, so Terror begins her steady trek on the waves of the North Sea. 


	2. Tozer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tozer does his job. Hodgson info dumps. Armitage's existence is noted.

_June 1845 - Some way from Stromness_

Sometimes, Sol wonders what might have happened had he told the recruiting officer with the funny-looking mustache and the slick braid that he had an extra toe when he came into this world. More a man of superstition than science, his father had taken him to seek out a reverend rather than a surgeon, and the superfluous appendage had been butchered in the alley outside their parish church after Sunday service, real fast like. He doesn’t remember the pain - small blessings, eh? - only his Ma’s screams, and those had been common enough around the house that they didn’t stand out much anymore. 

Years later, being asked about _any obvious deformities_ , eagerness for steady pay and a gait trained since childhood to show no traces of a limp had made it the easiest thing in the world to lie. Now, sitting in _Terror’s_ sick bay after standing a four hour watch, Sol wonders if, perhaps, he’d have been happier as a shoemaker, once dear old Dad went kissing dandelion roots. 

At any rate he’d have been happier for not having _Terror’s_ assistant surgeon frown down at him in such a manner. He’s got a sharp look about him, that one; he makes Sol feel like his secrets aren’t his own any longer. 

“Remove your shirt, please,” the doctor orders, kind around the eyes but nonetheless expecting compliance.

Tugging the sweat-drenched fabric over his head, Sol remembers the last person who made such a demand, using fewer words and in possession of nothing so close to bedside manner as the doctor. He’d still been a touch more eager to cooperate than he is now.

“Don’t see why we’ve got to do this.” 

A token protest, nothing more. 

MacDonald’s hand lays him down, gently, but not without command behind the pressure. It’s a common theme for the man, makes it hard to hate him and equally hard to question his methods, much as they rub many of the men on _Terror_ the wrong way. His reddish curls tickle Sol’s chest as he lays his ear against skin that must no doubt reek something fierce after a hard day’s watch. The sun’s still bearing down on them, and July heat makes it hard to keep cool.

(He’ll be gagging for some semblance of heat soon, sure enough.)

“I understand that this keeps you from your duties and your evening meal both,” the doctor explains as he straightens, “but Sir John insists that the marines, too, must submit to examinations.” 

Pausing to rub his hands together, MacDonald’s frown eases momentarily. “He would see all of the men in good health, and I won’t keep you long, Sergeant. We’re nearly through here.”

“Jolly good of him,” Sol says, because he reckons something akin to that sentiment is called for. “How’s my heart sound then? Reckon you got a good read for all your effort.”

A small smile plays around MacDonald’s face, vaguely embarrassed like some doxy playing at being shy for a bigger coin. “There is a device, you know, popularized by the French schools, that does not make such proximity to the patient necessary. A stethoscope, I believe they call it.”

“Fancy that.” 

“I imagine it would be rather more popular with the men,” MacDonald explains as his hands - now pleasantly warm - methodically examine Solomon’s face, neck and all. “But unfortunately for the men, the Admiralty is as opposed to French science as it is to French ships.”

“Admiralty’s rather taken with taking French ships, when she can,” Sol snorts, tipping his head back as directed, eyes trained at the ceiling and blocking out the inevitable intimacy even a clinical touch provides. Proud as he usually is of his egalitarian sentiments, they present a sure disadvantage now. Hasn’t even been half long, come to that. 

“So she is,” MacDonald agrees, sounding amused. “Now for the rest of you.”

“Is that necessary? Nothing’s wrong with my pipes, Doctor, be the first to admit so if it were.”

“I’m afraid it is necessary, aye. We’ve all got our orders, I’d be remiss if I didn’t see to mine.”

Nothing to be done about that. Best thing to do now is look for distraction. Let it happen, think of England or some such nonsense.

“What happened here, Sergeant?” MacDonald eventually catches his right foot in his hands after Sol has shrugged out of his boots and trousers alike, with only his shirt for modesty now. He inspects the tendrils of the inflamed scar tissue, straining and complaining over the rough handling they’ve seen since _Terror_ set out from Greenhithe. 

“Bayonet off the African coast,” Sol lies. 

Doctor MacDonald frowns some more, kneads at the flesh of his foot in a manner some might call suspiciously thorough, but his frown only deepens until, at last, it melts away into mildness.

“And does this _bayonet wound_ ever act up?”

“Not since it healed, Doctor.” Sol grits his teeth, glad when his foot is once more in his own keeping.

MacDonald stands, pats himself down. “That’s all then. You may redress yourself, Sergeant Tozer. Be so kind as to send Private Aitken my way. I haven’t seen him yet either, and I am rather eager to be done.”

+

“--showed me some _proper_ bedside manner, eh?” 

Sol catches only the tail-end of Wilkes’ joke, but it sounds inappropriate enough that he finds his seat at the table with a smack across the back of the private’s head.

“Deal me in, Billy,” he grunts at Heather, whose lips twist in the attempt of stifling a smile as Wilkes whines about rough handling. “Make yourself scarce, pup, you’ve the next watch by my count.”

That leaves Heather and Hedges, and that makes for a nice party of skat. Could be worse, could be much worse. Least they’ll clean Hedges out of his grog, if not more. 

“Daly on deck?” 

“Left to relieve Hammond shortly before the bells, as you asked,” Heather confirms, worrying at his lower lip and trying to deceive Hedges into thinking him incapable of disguising dismay over a bad hand. They’ve not known each other long enough for Hedges to have caught on to Heather’s strategy at cards, obvious as it is to those who know him. 

“And where’s Hammond?”

“Snoring in his hammock, I’m sure, or else spoiling that damned nuisance of a dog rotten with kisses.” Heather gives him a quick, skirting glance, catches some of the unease Sol still feels deep in his bones. “Had a nice time with our MacDonald, did you?”

“Not as nice as you, I’m sure,” snorts Sol. “When’s the last time someone touched you like that, eh?”

Billy pretends he has to think about it. “Must have been your sister, Sol.” 

Like he hasn’t been married to his Lizzie for the past seven years, like he’d ever stray from her and the brood that doubles in size whenever he can find a bit of shore leave.

“Must have been your sister, _Sergeant_ ,” he corrects absent-mindedly, uncaring that Hedges is proper delighted to see his superior officer being sported with. Heather’s known him long enough, and Hedges is his second; Sol ought to make an effort to get along better with his second, anyway - can’t do harm, that. “Anything to report?”

This is directed at Hedges, who knows it well as Sol, but the corporal only has a shake of the head for him. Not that a lack of bad news will make it any more pleasant to bring a report to Captain Crozier. Only thing he looks forward to there is the glass he’s sure to be offered.

+

When he knocks on the wardroom door, it’s the dark-haired steward who opens it, the one with the sleek hair instead of the curls, the captain’s personal one, face blank but eyes unnervingly alert behind a veil of disinterest. “Sergeant Tozer.”

“Evening. Here to make my report.”

“I am afraid Captain Crozier has gone to the hold,” the steward - what _is_ his name? - answers, not sounding the least bit apologetic. The heavy footsteps in the gangway behind them cannot belong to the stout form of the captain, and momentarily the appearance of First Lieutenant Little dashes Sol’s hope of an early night entirely. In his perusal of the scene, his brows knit together upon finding Sol somewhat out of place in this particular part of _Terror_. 

“Something to report, Sergeant?” He’s got a deep voice, one Sol is accustomed to hearing shout on deck, the kind you get used to immediately for issuing orders you can hop to with ease. Now that he speaks at a more polite volume, it is impossible to miss the nasal tone imparted by a sheltered childhood, however slight it may be in him compared to some of the other officers Sol has been sworn to protect since they roped him into a red coat. 

“Aye, Sir,” he confirms. As if he’d be back in officer’s country for anything else. _Just dropping in for a spot of tea, if you please, Lieutenant. Don’t be shy with the whiskey, neither_. 

“Come in then.”

The steward steps aside silently to grant Little easy passage, slipping into the cabin behind Sol and closing the door without drawing the officer’s attention, even as Sol feels a sort of nervous energy from his hovering presence in the hairs of his neck between every carefully chosen word of his report, meagre though it may be. Beats him how these officer types can go about ignoring a steward - any of the men aboard, really - when they do not directly serve a purpose at any given moment, but he supposes their head must be filled with other shite. Some of it might even be important, he’s sure he wouldn’t know, he just does his job. Sol’s not one to grouse. 

“Thank you, Jopson.” Lieutenant Little spares not one glance for the steward as he sets out tea for them both. There’s the name, Sol remembers, now. _A man who’d like nothing better than for us to forget he’s only from Marylebone_ , Billy had said of him. A Battersea man, he’d grown up not far from Jopson, had occasionally seen him about town, so he had. Even after they’d all signed on, Thomas Jopson had turned up his nose at Billy when he’d tipped his cap to the man in recognition. _Fancies himself something grand, I suppose, handpicked and all._ If Billy were less kind of a man, he might be given to starting rumours about Jopson’s exceptional standing with their captain. But he’s kind, Billy is, so he sticks to griping now and then, when no one but Sol is around to hear him, and gives the steward a wide berth when he does come across him during mess hours. 

As for Sol, he’s an Axbridge man, a proud one, and he’s not one to hide it - doesn’t care to polish the way words roll off his tongue for the scant compensation of an officer’s hearing pleasure. The tea is going tepid as he recounts that he has nothing much to recount, but Little’s expectant gaze does not let up. 

“And how fare your marines?”

An innocuous question. Or, it would be, had it not come from _Terror’s_ second. Sounds more like suspicion to Sol from Little, a man less secure of the stripes he’s earned might take it for an attack and bristle. 

“I keep them in line.” 

Lieutenant Little nods and pushes away from the desk. Doesn’t look satisfied, not quite, but perhaps a smidge less tense than some seconds ago. “If you’ll excuse me, then.” He puts his hat back on and ducks under the door. “Ring for Jopson to clean this up once you’re done.”

Little pauses briefly, mouth open as if he has something else to say, but then he shuts it firmly, nods once more, and steps out. 

Sol’s alone, beyond a wooden door where he has no business being if he doesn’t want anything from the library, sipping tea like he’s some nonce who likes his china fine and silverware finer. 

Last week, at least, Sol was offered two fingers of whiskey to accompany each of his reports. Captain Crozier does not seem a man inclined to provide for other men’s comforts, looking surly as he does, but it had gone a long way to ease Solomon’s mind when he’d offered the toast to a prosperous journey.

+

“Ah, good evening to you, Sergeant!” 

Sol turns his head from the vastness of the horizon, where the red sun is setting - perhaps one of the last lovely ones they'll see for a while - to offer a greeting in return. The sun don’t set near the poles, they say, and some of the men murmur it's cause you’re best not left in darkness in those parts. Sol wonders if they’ve not realized they’ll be in the dark for months, frozen in, perhaps, an hour or two of sunlight at most, weeks of no light at all. Doesn’t bring it up when the men share stories of horror, no doubt intended to frighten the younger ones, shakes his head free of notions on the sun and instead nods politely as he can at Lieutenant Hodgson, who has the watch with him, to all appearances. “Everything sorted up here, then?”

“Aye,” Sol confirms. They’ve had nothing at all to report; most excitement he’s gotten so far was reading signals from _HMS Rattler_ , never out of sight and never good for anything except practice he won’t need - they’ll be all alone in the arctic, no ship but _Erebus_ to signal, and Sol can’t rightly imagine they’ll have him see to that, not with so many aboard, and among them such young, eager minds ready to learn. 

“Capital,” Hodgson grins. He settles next to Sol, though at a very appropriate distance. It ain’t easy, Sol reckons, to get the measure of a man you’ll be sailing with for years from across a busy deck, but still it is not so very common for the bluejackets to come looking for conversation that he isn’t surprised. 

“It is that, Lieutenant,” Sol assents, resisting the urge to scratch at his neck. 

“I imagine, once we’ve found the passage, they’ll look towards making you a lieutenant as well,” Hodgson continues, like he’s privy to some grand secret. That’s proper codswallop, that is - such a promotion would see him skip too many ranks, all at once - but he understands how Hodgson is playing to some vanity he assumes Sol possesses. He’s proud to be a marine - proud to have made sergeant - but he has no pretensions to anything more. 

“Sergeant suits me fine,” says he and drops no word of a lie. He’s the ranking officer for _Terror’s_ marines, and though their complement is small, it’s quite enough for him. A promotion on the horizon means he’d have to really mean it when he tells Billy off for impropriety. 

“Do you know the Latin root of the word sergeant, Sergeant?”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“It derives its meaning from _serviens -_ the one who serves.”

“Does it.”

“Yes, though in our English history it was first recorded as _serjeantry_ , spelled with a j. Meant a form of tenure, a position distinguished from knighthood, old William the Conqueror put it down in Domesday. It’s an old, traditional term.”

Sol dearly wishes Lieutenant Hodgson would realize he has no interest in hearing about any of this, but he can’t rightly say that to a superior officer. Wouldn’t dream of it. No interest in collecting lashes, Sol has.

“--So you see, in a way, one could say that while the serjeantry lives on in the marines and their sergeants, the navy is a continuation of our understanding of medieval knighthood. Why, it even sounds a bit alike, navy, _knightry_ \--”

“Sounds more like knave to me,” mutters Sol. Hodgson pauses his lecture, stares at him. He regrets the slip of tongue immediately, but then the lieutenant starts laughing and claps him on the shoulder as though he’s been heartily regaled. 

“Right you are, Sergeant.” Once more composed, he says: “Well, I had best continue my rounds.”

Sol is glad to see the back of him. 

+

A petty officer sits across from Billy in the mess. All that Sol can see of him is a dark mop on his head. He’d know his men blind, this one ain’t one of them - and anyway he’d skin them alive for wearing one of them blue jackets. But he’s seen the lad around before, hanging up laundry on deck with the others so designated. That one’s a steward, so he is, the curly haired one at the beck and call of the gunroom officers. Private Heather is gesticulating wildly as he recounts a story no doubt dramatized for the lad’s benefit, to a captive audience of one. The other marines with him have only barely concealed amusement for the situation they’ve created. Wilkes reaches across to ruffle the strange head, musses it up into a tangled nest the lad has no hope of combing through. 

“Stop having the poor lad on, Heather,” Sol grumbles as he finds his seat next to the young man, ready to tell him to sod off. What’s he doing sitting with the marines, anyway? The lad’s face is earnest and has a somewhat far-off look about it, perhaps fancying himself basking in the heat of the African coast Heather’s story conjures. Billy can talk, and he does it well, but he’s never been one to let truth get in the way of a good story. Should have been one of them recruiters, their Billy. 

“Just having a bit of a story,” Heather shrugs. 

“All of your stories are full of shite.”

“I thought it rather fascinating,” the lad has the stones to protest. “All the fighting and what not.”

“I’m sure you did.” Sol turns to look at him proper-like, then thinks better of it and instead takes to shoveling whatever grub-shite Diggle cooked up tonight into his mouth. It’s a fair bit better than biscuits and tea, if only for the salt generously added, but it’s from a can and so by definition it looks like something that came from Neptune’s arse. The lad’s pretty, aye, Sol can admit it easily, even unkempt as he is just now. Men get duty owing for lesser infractions. That foppish Jopson would sooner go beneath the waves than show himself so disheveled, but there's a pretty face beneath the nest that would send any schoolgirl off crying her envy to her mother. Here in the mess there aren’t any proper officers to judge and berate, however, so he reckons the lad is safe. Not as though he cares. 

“Tommy here wanted to be a marine,” Heather prompts conversation. “When he was younger.”

“Hm.”

“Told him if that were the case, he’d better come sit with us from now on,” Heather continues, face split into a grin now, like he knows he’s giving them all a bit of fun, keeping the steward around as he is. 

“Getting desperate for someone to stroke off your ego, are we?” Sol grunts. It only makes Heather laugh - it’s no use, they’ve served together too often, too long, for Heather to consider him anything but a friend. Any respect he pays is half-courtesy, half-mockery. 

“I’d go join Mister Gibson,” the steward admits, searching out Sol’s eyes, “but the caulker’s mate breaks his ship’s tack at our table, and I don’t like the look of him.”

Aye, well, he’s not alone in that.

“Don’t make odds to me where you choose to sit, lad,” Sol insists, focusing on his food, minding his business, and nothing more. Can’t nothing good come of noticing pretty blue eyes this early on when they might be years at sea together. In Oahu, maybe, maybe...

+

A light sleep is nothing to lament when it comes to keeping men in line, Sol has learned. He stirs awake in his hammock the second anything that hasn’t faded into the background intrudes on his dreams. And they’d been pleasant, too, so he’s doubly-minded to be harsh. 

“And where might you be going, Wilkes?” Sol doesn’t need to crack his eyes open to know which of his marines is trying to sneak away across floorboards that creak damningly if you don’t mind yourself. Wouldn’t help to open his eyes, either way, the ship’s gone dark, at this hour. 

“Got a shirt what needs mending - Tommy said he’d do it for me,” Wilkes admits, wrong-footed for having been caught. 

“You’ll not be pressing the poor lad for any favours, you oaf, do you hear me?”

“No I won’t,” he agrees, sounding put out. 

“Let me hear it.”

“I’ll do my own mending,” he repeats, measured. Sol’s a fair sergeant, yes, but he’ll only put up with so much backtalk. None, when it comes to direct orders. 

“Damn right you will,” Sol grumbles. “He’s not your wife, Wilkes.”

“Wilkes isn’t married, Sergeant,” someone yawns, “but you’re doing a fine job nagging at him like he is.”

“Not a word more out of you, Heather.”

+

He whistles for the gunroom steward when he observes him coming on deck to hang up laundry that looks as though it came from sick bay. The lad takes no notice of it until Sol stomps his foot and repeats his call; by then he looks damn near frightened to be the one singled out, but he makes his way towards where he is beckoned quickly enough. “Good morning, Sergeant Tozer, and isn’t it just? Sure we won’t see sunshine like this a few weeks from now.”

Sol will admit he holds himself well, for all his coquettish ways. Those ways, however, could make a man dream for a bit, if he were so inclined. “Keen to do mending for my men, are you, lad?”

“I’ve time enough for it, is all.” The lad rolls his shoulders, looks Sol dead in the eye now. Feels like a challenge, when he puts it like that, but _Tommy_ here has got things mixed up if he thinks Sol’s been sniffing about him like some of the others, looking for treats.

“I doubt that,” Sol counters, nodding at the pile of laundry damn near spilling over the basket. “See to your own duties, don’t let them bully you into anything else.”

“And I suppose that's an order, Sergeant?” 

“Aye, it is that.” Never mind that Sol’s command doesn’t extend so far. 

The lad’s cheek ticks, slightly. “Can’t say I don’t appreciate your concern.”

Sol growls something meant to set the lad straight, but he doesn’t get so far as that before they are interrupted. 

“There you are, Armitage.” Doctor MacDonald has appeared on deck. “Mister Blanky is looking for you. Hurry down, would you?”

“Right away, Doctor,” the lad calls pleasantly, turning with the basket still on his hip like some tavern wench, and just as beguiling in his form. That’s trouble, walking away from Sol on two solidly built legs, and he should be glad for what surely constitutes divine intervention on the doctor’s part.

  
  
  



	3. Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nedward’s Inbox is still mosty empty.

**Chapter Three - Little**

_ Mid-June 1845 - Near Greenland _

He thanks the steward for his cup of tea, then passes the time staring at the intricately painted designs on the porcelain. It is at odds with what awaits them, to have such fine china accompany them to a place so likely to break it - what a waste.

“The Captain won’t be but a moment, Sir.”

“I’ve time to spare.” He means for it to be reassuring, hopes it comes across that way, but doesn’t look at Jopson to check.

“I’ll fetch him for you, even so,” he hears before Jopson makes for Crozier’s berth. Three jaunty knocks later, Crozier’s grumpy response has Edward hiding a smile in his cup. Walls are thin here. Many things are easily overheard on  _ Terror _ . 

“Ah, Edward!” Crozier greets him a moment later, discouraging Jopson’s hands, still engaged in battle with the cravat haphazardly laid around his neck. “Is all well above?”

The steward finally gets his way, and soon the captain looks presentable. 

“As far as I can tell,” agrees Edward mildly. Crozier opens a side cupboard, produces a flask, and drops a generous helping of clear, brown liquid into his teacup, suspiciously low earlier and now topped up just right. “Mister Blanky is sure we’ll come upon Greenland within a day or less.”

“Good.” Crozier takes a long sip. “That’s good.”

“ _ Erebus _ has signaled that you are invited to dine amongst her officers tonight.”

“Grand,” Crozier rasps, the word sounding distinctively more Irish for the early hour. He follows that declaration up with another hearty swig. “You’re very welcome to accompany me.”

Edward tries to come up with something to say, some excuse to give. 

“Oh, don’t look as though I’ve asked you to shoot your mother, Little,” Crozier scolds, ignoring that he looks much the same. “It’s only dinner, not treason.”

“Pardon me,” Edward hastens to say, “I do not mean to give the impression that I am ungrateful for the invitation - it is only that I do not possess a talent for mastering such conversations. When I speak I do not endear myself to command.”

He prefers to listen - such has always been his preference - but increasingly, the Erebites have taken to making inquiries into his life, and he feels more the inept fool than the formidable second commended to the admiralty by those he served with, when he is pressed to regale. 

“And I haven’t the background to endear myself.” Crozier’s cup is raised in a mockery of a toast. “What a pair we make, eh? What day is it?”

“Friday, Sir,” Jopson replies, standing at his shoulder like a personal guard. 

“A willing foe and sea room, then.” The remaining contents of Crozier’s cup are downed in one. “The former will be our formidable Fitzjames and tonight’s stories, I wager-”

A pause. 

“-and sea room, we will have to do our best to find.” 

The whiskey will have done a fair job cooling Crozier’s tea down, whereas Edward’s throat burns from the temperature alone as he follows suit. “What do you suppose comes after Greenland, Edward?”

“The passage, I imagine.”

Crozier’s sardonic smile is really quite something. “Study the maps some more. You can do better than that, I trust.”

Edward has already done a fair bit of that: he can suppose they’ll make for Lancaster Sound even without having received such orders from  _ Erebus _ as of today, for that is the only sensible start. That is where those who came before them began, and that is where they can hope to push on. He’s studied the maps; the problem lies within them. They are woefully incomplete, subject to bias from their respective cartographers. Maps do a man little good in uncharted territory. 

_ All a man has out there are his instincts and his training,  _ Captain Nicolas told him when he’d been invited for dinner in March shortly after he’d been informed of his posting.  _ You happen to have been blessed with the former, and I do hope I’ve helped you gain the latter.  _

What Crozier asks for is nothing outlandish - merely an informed second. 

“I expect our proceedings will engender some debate in the coming months. You’d do well to form an opinion and know to defend it, should it be asked. Do you understand me, Edward?”

He nods. 

“Good.” Crozier sighs, rolling his shoulders as he stands. “On deck with me, now.”

+

Lieutenant Hodgson observes the deck with his hands still behind his back, every now and then calling out an order or insult to some unfortunate sailor. As Crozier goes to check in with him, so Edward goes about checking everything else. The rigging may be faulty, though he’s learned that Mister Peglar knows his business and makes an impressive, reliable captain of the foretop. The men under his command like him; what’s more, they trust him too. 

Two of them, Edward chooses to test today, both for his own reassurance and so that they may learn. Evans is no good at hiding his obvious pride when he presents his work to Edward. 

“Just like what you showed me, Sir.”

He’s terribly young - the suspicion that he may have lied about being eighteen rankles Edward. Granted, the boy wouldn’t be the first to cheat the Navy, but he’s so unfathomably young about the eyes, and they are headed for a merciless place. Christ, Edward can hardly recall ever looking at the world through such eyes. 

“Good,” Edward commends. “Where do we store the gunpowder on  _ Terror _ , Evans?”

The ship’s boy’s eyes go wide, he blinks up at Edward like a startled deer, frozen. “The, uh, the gunroom, Sir?”

Next to Evans, with his eyes lowered respectfully to the deck, Robert Golding chokes on a laugh. “I suppose you know better, Golding?” Edward seizes the opportunity to ask. 

“Gunroom’s just where the mates and such meet, Sir,” he answers, stuttering after being called on where he’d likely felt rather secure earlier. 

“Who mans our guns, Evans?”

“Uh--”

“Well?”

“The marines, Sir,” Evans blurts out, after glancing over Edward’s shoulder, where it is most likely one of the petty officers is performing a silent, well-intentioned charade. “The marines, yeah, it’s them who carry the weapons, too!”

“That’s correct,” Edward acknowledges. “It is my suggestion that you find Sergeant Tozer immediately and have him show you the powder stores before we call on you to run for some and you can’t find your way.”

Edward risks a slow, passing glance over his right shoulder, sees one face that looks especially arranged into indifference.

“Yes, Sir,” Evans nods, profusely, “Right away, Sir.” 

As he tries to hurry past, Edward catches the lad by the ear, sharply. “I expect you to know the ins and out of this ship like the back of your hand, or you’ll know the back of mine; is that understood, Evans?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And without Mister Peglar’s help next time.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

“Be on your way, then.”

Wide-eyed, Evans raises his knuckles to his head before hurrying off. When Edward turns back to Golding, the lad’s eyes are equally fearful. “Show me that rope,” Edward orders, hand held out. “This isn’t tight enough,” he notes immediately, fiddling with the length of it. “Won’t hold. You’ll cut your hand on this before it gives you what you want.”

“Mister Strong, if you please,” he calls across the deck. 

The beckoned man appears quickly, wiping his hands free of grease with a damp cloth. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

“Have Golding here practice a rolling hitch until his fingers bleed or he makes it tight enough, whichever comes first,” Edward orders. “And send Mister Male my way.”

They’ve much work to do before they reach the ice, he fears. 

Hodgson, of course, teases him for it when he joins him by the captain’s side ten minutes later. “You’ll make perfect little sailors of them yet, Edward.”

After squinting at the sky in silence, Crozier suddenly speaks. “Any suggestions, Lieutenant Hodgson?” 

“Sir?”

“We are off course, George,” Crozier says with the weariness of an ancient. “You will fix our position and recommend a corrected course to me within the hour.”

By Edward’s estimation they’ve veered too far west, but it’s not him the captain has asked. 

“Consider it done, Sir,” Hodgson confirms. When Crozier walks down along the deck, he turns to Edward. “He couldn’t notice that after John came to relieve me, could he?”

“We all have much to learn, George,” says Edward, patting his arm. “Remember to correct for magnetic deviation before you go and tell him.”

+

Hodgson leaves him shortly after four bells - second dog watch - and with his departure the room empties. Edward feels no compunction about spreading maps far and wide over the wardroom table, flattening the edges with used tea cups and brandy glasses long abandoned by the evening’s company. He sends Mister Genge off to bed, knowing himself fully capable of undressing for the night and certainly not requiring anyone to stay up so late just because after nearly two years of lying dormant, Edward’s motivation once more stares him in the face. He’d not thought, even after eighteen miserable months of half-pay, that he’d ever count himself eager to discover the passage, but Crozier’s made a convert of him with a few stern orders. 

It comes as something of a surprise therefore, given the hour, when Jopson strides into the cabin. His appearance startles Edward into spilling the remaining dregs of his tea, and the steward is already halfway through an apology before Edward realizes what has happened. 

“Sir, your sleeve!” Jopson gasps, setting down his tray and coming to inspect it. “This will have to be laundered quickly.”

“I’ll have Genge see to it in the morning.”

“The garment will be ruined by then.”

“It is only a shirt, Mister Jopson,” Edward placates. “I have many more like it - would you believe some of them bear stains much worse than this one?”

“But it is my fault--”

“It is no such thing,” Edward insists gently. “Only my own clumsiness, think nothing more of it. Dismissed.”

Jopson steps back immediately. Hands clasped tight and shoulders square, Jopson fixes his eyes to some spot on the wall just left to his head. “May I launder it for you, Sir?”

Edward is bewildered. Beginning the short walk to his cabin, so that he may change, he gives in. “If you insist.” 

Jopson remains at his heels. Though he says nothing, Edward can feel his hovering, the weight of his gaze. The poor man really should not berate himself so - would in all likelihood not, should he know the truth of how many stains Edward bears on his clothes and character alike. He unbuttons the waistcoat quickly, impatient to return to the map and unconcerned with privacy. 

“Will you be long at your work, Sir?”

“I plan to be.”

“You will take some refreshments, then?” Jopson’s enquiry is dutifully directed to the wall as Edward searches about for something clean to wear. 

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble, Sir. You needn’t think that.”

Edward considers him. Though he is never far from composed, there is some unfamiliar, nervous energy to Jopson’s eyes now - just the kind of look to fit a man wishing to repair himself for a mistake that was not his in the first place. Crozier and Blanky both praised him as exceptionally dedicated whenever his name came up, before Edward stepped aboard that first time and could corroborate it for himself. “Another cup of tea then, please, if you would.”

“Right away, Sir,” Jopson promises before making off with his shirt, a bounce returned to his step. He is not gone long; Edward has only just returned to frowning at the map when Jopson enters with a cup that - miraculously, at this hour - is steaming hot. “I wonder--” Jopson seems to think better of continuing the sentence until Edward lifts his eyes to look at him, granting him leave to go on with a permissive gesture. “My apologies, Sir, only I wonder at you studying the maps so late.”

“What is it you wonder?”

“What you wish to discover that cannot wait until morning, I suppose.”

Edward furrows his brow: “I should think that would be obvious.” The steward had been in the room when Crozier gave the order, and he does not think the man tunes out conversations that do not concern him simply because it is expected of a steward.

“Right,” Jopson nods, lips tightening into a line. 

“Our best shot at the passage.” Edward gestures towards the vast blankness, notes how pinched the steward’s brow has gone, how far the pleasantness previously affixed to his face threatens to fall. “Though all I have achieved so far is to add an island made of tea.”

Jopson peers at the stain and huffs, as though he cannot help being amused. It is a novel experience for Edward, who does not often give his partners in conversation cause for joy. “Perhaps you’ve divined an island we’re soon to discover.”

That would not be the strangest prediction to come out of tea leaves, would it? “We should have to enter the ice at rather an inconvenient point north - I do not think that Sir John shall be convinced of such a proposition. He has Lancaster Sound in mind.” Edward supposes that Jopson will already be aware of that, if he’s been listening. 

“More’s the pity,” commiserates Jopson, handing off the new cup of tea in exchange for the old. “Careful, Sir, don’t let's make any more islands.”

“That would, however, increase our chances of being right regarding at least one of them, would it not?”

Now Jopson shows his smile more openly, accompanied by a temperate chuckle that Edward finds rather pleasant on his ears. “What will you name it?”

“Name what?”

“Your discovery, Sir,” Jopson taps his finger on the stain, thrice. He balances the tray on his right hand even as he traces the outline of Edward’s mishap with his left. The glasses don’t shake at all. “Little island, perhaps?”

“That hardly has a nice ring to it,” Edward protests. “I cannot pretend to have been particularly blessed with a name fit for our line of work.” He pauses, watching as Jopson collects empty cups and glasses. “Especially,” he adds, “Considering the size of the spill. I do not imagine that is the sense of irony the Admiralty enjoys.”

“Perhaps not,” Jopson agrees softly. 

“But as you - quite incorrectly - maintain the whole thing was your fault, I’ll name it for you and have you steal my glory.” It’s a rare joke, but Jopson shakes his head all too insistently. “Or else Tea-land.”

“Well, if we do find Tea-land,” Jopson muses, once more composed, “I suppose it won’t be up to us to name it.”

“But if it were, Mister Jopson,” Edward presses, “what would you name it?”

“Little Island would be the kind of irony I enjoy, Sir.” With that said, Jopson promptly turns to leave the room. 

Armed with tea, Edward turns his mind to more productive pastimes.


	4. Peglar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry doesn’t like to gossip. No, really. He doesn’t, guys.

**Chapter Four - Peglar**

_ Early July 1845 - The Sea, the Sea, the Open Sea! _

Men always laugh when Harry Peglar tells them that there’s nothing quite so fine as the wind whipping across your face, high up on the masts. They then tell him to consider the feeling of sinking between a willing, buxom girl’s thighs or try and explain some foreign delicacy they once sampled.  _ Coconuts, mangos, papaya, baklava _ \- Harry has tried it all and been left wanting. On occasion, he later comes to find the rare delicacy they spoke of was also a carnal one, clad in a euphemism he had not heard before, and can only sigh.

The one true contender someone has posited is the feeling of diving, when the weight of the water above your head compresses your soul neatly into the constraints of your body. It is exactly the opposite of what one feels up high, from what he’s heard. Of course he’s never been as far below the water as above it. Wind on his face could easily be wind beneath wings, up here. Harry feels closest to heaven in the rigging; he is nearer to God - or whatever else might be beyond his understanding - up here than he ever is on solid ground. 

Someone whistles at him, drawing him back from fanciful thoughts of flight or God. Harry recapitulates his earlier observations to himself: open water in all directions, far as the eye can see; bits of ice here and there; clear path due north, shouldn’t be a problem to keep to their course. Right then, down he goes. 

He checks that his gloves are secure before grabbing at the line that will make for the swiftest descent. At the end of the rope the deck awaits. Harry lands on his feet, light-footed as the leopard his mother - may her soul know peace - used to liken him to. 

Mister Blanky sets down his looking glass, turning expectantly to Harry. “What ‘ave we got, then?” 

There’s something about _Terror_ ’s ice master that awes a man. Harry’s not normally one to lend much credence to mess hall gossip, but he knows how often Mister Blanky has gone into the ice, and he can admire that even as he doesn’t understand his motivations. _Always a gamble_ _if you’ll make it out_ , they say _._ Turns a man tough, so they all suppose, and there’s none so tough as Mister Blanky except perhaps the captain himself. It takes a certain kind of man to defy death in these parts and then willingly tilt at glaciers again and again. Harry wonders what it is that draws Mister Blanky back, for there must be something to justify this continued madness; as for him, he’ll keep to the equator rather than the poles, in the future. 

“Hard to say,” he hedges. “You might wanna have a look about yourself.”

“Already have,” Blanky assures him. “Go on and tell us what you think waits due north.”

“Ice is getting larger, more blocky,” says Harry. “Nothing to worry about at present, but if we’re seeing ice like this in July I wonder at our chances of entering Lancaster Sound in good conscience.”

“Aye, summat like that,” Blanky agrees, expression thoughtful. “Well done, Mister Peglar. Send one of the boys up now and report back to me by first watch.”

“Yes, Sir.” Harry touches his knuckles to his cap. 

“And see that our young Golding learns to not cut his fingers swingin’ on the rope as he does.”

Mister Blanky turns back across the deck, moves on to interrogate others. Harry catches one of the boys as he tries to scurry past him, slippery like a cord that’s been oiled too generously and just as likely to cause an accident. He has him by the hair, which he can do only because the boy’s cap has been blown off by the gale. “You don’t run like that unless you want to break something, you hear me, boy?”

It’s Evans, red-faced and panting. “Sorry Mister Peglar, Sir, but they’ve signaled from  _ Erebus _ . Lieutenant Irving says I’m to find either the Captain or Lieutenant Little, quick as I can.”

“When you find the Lieutenant, tell him I have the report he asked for ready for him. On your way - steady now.”

Evans slumps upon being released, continuing his journey in a more measured step. Not for the first time he wonders whether the boy will take the cautionary words to heart. They’ve nothing to worry about now, but there’ll come a day when they can holystone well past their hearts’ content and will still find a deck impossible to navigate at such speeds. The ice is treacherous, like some living thing; its design is hard for man to comprehend in its entirety. Even those who claim mastery cannot predict its habits enough to  _ guarantee _ successful navigation. 

+

He ends up finding Little without Evans’ help a short while later. The lieutenant walks the length of the quarterdeck with Mister Hornby, listening to the mate complain rather loudly. Peglar leaves Leys to his duties before he steps on. 

“--nothing like it, though I confess I do miss our time aboard the  _ Vindictive _ ,” Hornby is saying. “The running of the guns, and such, for all we got to use them in the channel. We get no practice at all out here.”

“I doubt we’ll see much action this far north.” The deep nasal timbre of Lieutenant Little’s voice is hard to understand when he does not purposefully raise it to the volume of an order. They were born a three hour walk apart in December of the same year if the rolls hold truth. Harry is of Westminster while Little is of Hornsey; it is not the horizontal differences of accent that poses a challenge, but the vertical. “But it cannot hurt to be prepared, as you say. I’ll put it to the Captain.”

“Lieutenant Little, Sir,” Harry says, making his presence known and offering the customary greeting as befits each of their ranks. “Mister Hornby.”

“You have something for me, Mister Peglar?”

“That is correct, Sir,” he confirms. “The report you requested.”

“Very well,” grunts the lieutenant, before he turns to dismiss the mate. “Mister MacBean seemed to me in need of help.”

Once Mister Hornby has gone below, Lieutenant Little’s hand twists in an inviting gesture, and he continues his walk with Harry at his side. “The men of the foretop haven’t given any cause for trouble. Only two have duty owing as is.”

Lieutenant Little’s eyes sweep to meet his, slowly. 

“Lieutenant Irving gave them such for unkempt hair, they claimed.”

Nothing on the lieutenant’s face betrays how he might feel about such a decision, so Harry leaves it at that. “I’ve gone to see Mister Lane already, Peglar,” Little tells him. “What I need from you is what he does not know.”

“It’s early days.” Harry shrugs. “Hasn’t been much cause for discontent, you see. Captain Crozier’s reputation precedes him. An old arctic hand and all that. We feel we’re in good hands here on  _ Terror _ . Helps that we’re not tee-total like the Erebites.”

Some might be right to point out that whiskey does not sharpen a man’s senses. Harry is as fond of his grog as the next man, but he’s seen the bottles Mister Jopson shepherds to and fro, full at breakfast and empty by the time Harry settles into his hammock. Might help the men’s spirits that  _ Terror _ is full of spirit, yes, but there’s a cost they’ve yet to calculate, he supposes.

Another  _ hm _ sound from Little, this time sounding rather more disgruntled. No doubt he’s noticed what Harry has. Lieutenant Little is certainly more involved in the captain’s daily habits. It’s none of his business, not his observation to make: Crozier is a good captain, and Harry follows his orders gladly. They’ve been quite sound so far. Harry has served lesser captains than him, and some of them entirely sober. 

“What do you know of the caulker’s mate?”

“Our Mister Hickey?” Harry scratches his head, frowns. That one’s not under his command; he hardly sees him if not in the mess, sitting with Billy Gibson or Mister Wilson, sometimes putting up two fingers at Mister Darlington’s retreating form. On such occasions Harry tells himself that a caulker’s mate isn’t for the captain of the foretop to berate and leaves the man to his peace. “Fairly little, if you’ll pardon the pun, Sir. Friendly with most of the men; he’s taken that boy Golding firmly under his wing, far as I can tell. Given to complain every now and then. More than most, I think, but there’s all sorts of men below deck. Sea lawyers on every ship, eh?”

“Which one is he?” Lieutenant Little asks, eyes scanning the deck in that measured way with which he seems to do everything. Fine breeding, Harry supposes, means you can take your time with things, whereas his own mind seems to always be jittery, jumping from one thought to another, somersaulting over others. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been so still as the lieutenant, on the inside, even if he holds his body outwardly so. 

“Can’t spot him on deck just now,” Harry says, though he strains his eyes. “You’ll have seen him around, though. Slight man, about ye big, red of hair, face like-”

“A rat?” the Lieutenant completes the sentence, brow arched. 

“Yes, Sir,” he admits, embarrassed. “Rather.”

“I think I’ve seen him with Mister Gibson.”

“That’s your man,” Harry upholds. “May I ask where this curiosity comes from, Sir?”

“Only that it would appear he has the most duty owing aboard  _ Terror _ , so far.” Lieutenant Little nods at him. “Thank you, Mister Peglar. Dismissed.”

+

“What did Little want ye for, Harry?” Goddard asks as brown, unidentifiable sauce dribbles into his beard from a spoon left lingering just short of his mouth. He watches with some disgust as Goddard mops the droplets up with his bread ration - behavior unbefitting of an officer, even if it is only a petty one. At least he’s not wasteful: Mister Diggle has dressed the cans nicely, and even if it doesn’t compare to fresh food, it’s not all bad. It’d be foolhardy to toss even a little spoonful of it.

“Just a report on how the men were carrying on,” Harry explains, shrugging. He has no ambition to understand the thought processes of first lieutenants. It’s no hardship to tell an officer that he keeps the men in line, especially when he’s tasked to do so as part of his duties. “Probably he’ll ask you for the same before very long.”

“Had a chat with me about that, too,” Reuben chimes in. “Oh, really, Mister Goddard, have some decency when you eat, no one wants to see what you’ve had for breakfast, and yet we all know.”

“Sounds to me like a man paranoid about mutiny.”

Next to Goddard, Farr snorts. That one is an old hand on a ship, he’ll know better. But then, so should Goddard. “Think the man’s got bigger concerns than that, what with all we’ve ahead of us.”

“Not like we’re doing much sailing at the moment, traipsing to and fro until they let us into the Sound as we are,” shrugs Goddard. “Perfect time to weed out which of the men he can lash first. Keep us in line before we ever think of stepping out. Seen it done before, so I have.”

“Really, I don’t think that is--” 

“Look at ye, Reuben,” chuckles Goddard, reaching across the table with a smeared hand, trying to ruffle his fair hair. “So ready to defend a man you hardly know just because ye like his shiny, shiny epaulettes. How charming.”

Reuben bats his hand away, glowering. “You don’t think it’s worth something that he takes an interest in how the men are doing?”

“Aye, worth a fair bit, that,  _ if  _ he’s listening,” nods Farr. “Not many of these officer types do.”

Even Goddard agrees, albeit reluctantly. “Don’t he have an awful look about his mug, though? Could swear he were condemned to hang in the morning for all the joy in his eyes.”

Reuben snorts into his grog, coughs loudly. 

“You’ve the right of it,” Farr concedes, “But that don’t matter much, does it? That Hodgson is as friendly as they come, and he don’t spend half the time checking everything is in order that the other two do.”

“Takes it a bit too far sometimes, Lieutenant Irving does.” Reuben shakes his head, voice still hoarse from his coughing fit. “Last week he gave Kinnaird one week's duty owing for spilling grog on his shirt. Reckon it’s cause he’s been starin’ all absent-minded during Sunday service. Hasn’t got enough worship in him.”

“Those damn sermons put a man right to sleep,” Goddard chuckles. “Can’t say I blame him.”

“Kinnaird should be glad he only got duty owing for spilling alcohol on a superior officer,” Farr whistles. “On another ship that’d get him lashed.”

“His own shirt, like,” Reuben clarifies. 

“Are we all fishwives, now?” Harry asks, exasperated, when the others  _ ooh _ and  _ aah  _ at Reuben’s stories. He’s a friend, true enough, but he’s got a mouth looser than the skirts on a Portsmouth tavern girl, and captain of the fo’c’sle or not, it’s bound to get him into trouble if he does not take care. 

+

_ As with the sea and the moon,  _ he writes into the margin, mirrored as is his habit. Even as he pens the words he wonders if it is not too apparent that they hold deeper meaning, that he is not merely annotating the book he intends to send over to  _ Erebus _ when next someone goes aboard. _ I am less when you are gone _ . 

He misses John dearly. It’s worse for knowing he’s just outside of Harry’s reach. All those months on  _ Wanderer _ , Harry contented himself with writing letters. Now he wishes they’d been posted on the same ship. He gets on well with the other terrors, no two ways about it, but he wants for the conversations he’s had with John. It’s no foreign sentiment for Harry to want to share his thoughts throughout the day with his erstwhile teacher, but the ache is something stronger now. 

From his position in the crow’s nest, he watches  _ Erebus _ steam her way onwards,  _ Terror _ ever at her heels, and wonders if John thinks on him sometimes but does not dare turn back to look at  _ Terror _ for fear of Harry turning to stone, or disappearing, depending on if he’s being moved by the biblical or the Greek, that day. It can go either way, with John. 

He scribbles that thought down, too, on a scrap of paper, and folds it into the pages. There it lies, tucked between a conversation and a confession. 

Twice he resolves to take it back out, then decides against it, until, at last, he snaps the book shut and makes his way to his hammock


	5. MacDonald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander remembers some things and makes some observations. That's it, that's the chapter.

**Chapter Five - MacDonald**

_ Early July, 1845, approaching Greenland’s south-eastern coastline _

_ When first she’d knocked at his door, he’d hardly believed his eyes. Like something he had dreamed up, she appeared to him. “Hullo,” Annie had greeted him with a smile. “I am looking for George Camden.” _

_ “More’s the pity you aren’t looking for me,” Alexander had blurted out, having just spent three sleepless nights preparing for his exams. He’d been fit to collapse, then, hardly in a state to charm anyone, much less such a fine girl.  _

_ Annie had looked him up and down then. “You’re MacDonald, I take it?” _

_ “Aye,” he’d said before inviting her in, remembering his manners far too late. She’d laughed, accepted the cup of tea he’d prepared for himself, and watched as he fiddled nervously with the leaves to prepare a second one for himself.  _

_ “Georgie didn’t mention you were so handsome,” she’d said finally, only to laugh at him some more when he spilled the tea over the front of his waistcoat, startled by such daring. Even the tavern girls hadn’t been quite so forthright with him.  _

_ “I’m hardly that, Miss--?” _

_ “Camden,” she’d supplied. “You really ought to get that off, and quickly. Tea stains horribly, I assure you.” _

_ “Yes, well, if you’d excuse me, Miss Camden - I’ll be back with you in a moment.” _

_ He’d hastened to his room in the apartment he shared with George, leaning back against the door and berating himself for his poor showing. Then it had finally hit him that the young lady was George’s sister, not the next in a long string of mistresses. He’d splashed some water on his face, both to reduce the burning of his blush and to feel somewhat more awake, had tried ineffectively to comb his hair into something as dashing as what her brother and his other friends habitually sported, and then exchanged the shirt that, after three days, had begun to stick to his skin so much it necessitated peeling away in some places, for a freshly laundered one, and added his very best waistcoat on top.  _

_ By the time he’d returned to their sitting room, George had come home, lifting his dearest sister off the ground despite her complaints, crushing her against his chest, and peppering her now bonnet-free head with kisses.  _

_ “You’ve met MacDonald, I see,” he had grinned. “Do be careful, he’s a blackguard if ever there was one, a veritable scoundrel, a cad, hey!”  _

_ “By all means, my good man, say more and we’ll meet at dawn.” Alexander had shaken his fist in a half-hearted warning to desist, but he could not wholly deny George the pleasure of blackening his name to his sister - more so for knowing George did not mean it.  _

_ “He behaved most gentlemanly,” Annie had assured him. “He even got so far as to tell me of his work for Doctor Giles, before you arrived.” _

_ “Is that why he’s playing the peacock for you now?” George had teased before ruffling Alexander’s disastrous attempt at smoothing his hair. “Maybe he wants to impress you, Annie.” _

_ “He’s more impressive than you, at the very least,” Annie had huffed, “Months pass, and not a line to say how you are doing! What was I to think?” _

_ “Well, Annie, I hardly thought you’d run away from home for missing me. If I’d known, I’d have stopped writing much earlier.” _

_ “Don’t be silly,” she’d dismissed, taking a sip. “I left a note for Da, naturally. That doesn’t constitute running away, does it?” _

_ “Oh, if that’s all,” George had snorted. “I’m sure things will be just grand. Have you given thought to where you’ll stay?” _

_ “Here, I think.”  _

_ “Can’t allow it,” George had refused immediately. _

_ “I think I’ve nothing to fear from your MacDonald,” Annie had laughed, turning to Alexander, the full force of her smile rather overpowering for any fortunate young man who found it turned on him. “Do I?” _

_ “No, Miss Camden,” he’d assured her, quickly. “I can take rooms in a hotel for a few days. It wouldn’t be any trouble, and you needn’t fear for anyone’s reputation.” _

_ “I fear only that the presence of my sister will impede my chances of charming a girl to our rooms.” George, having narrowly escaped a smack to the head, had at last resorted to picking Annie up again. “Never mind what I say, dear Annie, know that I am monstrously happy to see you here.” _

_ Privately, Alexander had heartily agreed.  _

Peddie takes the lamp from his desk as he prepares to turn in for the night. “You’re still at that novel of a letter, I take it?”

Alexander, drawn suddenly from his reveries, squints at him in the sparse light. “We won’t have the chance to post any more letters, soon.”

“Give my best wishes to your Annie, then.” Peddie’s eyes twinkle with mirth. “Always was a lively thing, I should say. Pleasant girl. You’ve made the best possible choice, by my estimate.”

“Couldn’t agree more. I didn’t think you knew her.” Alexander also cannot recall mentioning a name when pressed about his ‘wife’ at dinner by Mister Blanky. How Peddie has figured it out now is beyond him. 

“My family are acquainted with the Camdens,” Peddie reveals. “If they’d let the daughter study medicine rather than the son, they might have had someone worthy of the office carry on the family practice, if you’ll pardon my saying so about your friend.”

Alexander pardons it, and readily so. Even while they were studying, George had no ambition to practice medicine in the unlikely event of ever finishing his courses. As of May he still hadn’t, and in the years of Alexander’s absence, he supposes that may be the only thing to remain unchanged. 

+

“Open your mouth for me, Mister Aitken,” he orders the young marine, who complies hesitantly. “Sergeant Tozer said you’d been coughing exceptionally loud last night?”

“After standing watch,” claims Aitken. “Hardly uncommon, is that?”

“Perhaps not, no,” Alexander says, feeling the man’s glands, which do not appear to be swollen. His colour, however, is not particularly pleasing. 

“Ah, our next patient,” Peddie realizes as he comes striding into the room, hands sticky with blood. He’d gone and seen a small cut on deck, only to return now looking quite the butcher. “Has Private Aitken been coughing up blood when he hacks away at it?”

“Only once, like,” the man admits, casting his eyes down. “Wasn’t no big deal to me.”

“Best have a listen to your chest sounds, then.” Peddie wipes his hands clean, sounding unusually eager to interact with a patient. “Off with that shirt, if you please.”

+

_ “Miss Camden!” Alexander had startled to find her the one knocking at the laboratory. “I’m afraid George’s gone home already - you’ve just missed him.” _

_ “Pity,” she had chirped. “Might I come in?” _

_ “Oh, yes, please do. How thoughtless of me not to offer!” He’d stepped aside quickly, granted her access even though there was no doubt Doctor Giles would frown upon it. “I’m just packing up, then I’ll accompany you home. Does your brother know you’re in Edinburgh?” _

_ “A surprise visit, for his birthday,” she’d revealed.  _

_ “Won’t they worry?” _

_ “I’ve left word with the butler, naturally,” Annie had laughed. “They’ve long grown used to my antics - and if they haven’t, they’d better, for I am unlikely to stop, I tell you.” _

_ “I say!” Alexander had stammered, turning to carefully pack away his microscope.  _

_ “You’ve not told me how happy you are to see me yet,” she’d teased, suddenly rather close to his shoulder. “I’d feared you’d have forgotten me.” _

_ That would have been impossible. Even if her visits had been sparse, his recollection of Annie Camden was not. “Then George has been neglecting to add my best wishes in his letters to you, Miss Camden,” he’d gone on to protest, glad to see he’d made her smile. “I am, you must know that.” _

_ “You are--?” _

_ “Happy to see you, that is,” Alexander had elaborated. “Very happy.” _

_ Annie had turned away, hiding another smile in a dainty hand. She’d gone to inspect the shelved rows of organs, dissected and preserved for further study. “Have you worked on any of these, Alex?” _

_ “Some, yes. Careful with those, Miss Camden!” At the last second he’d rushed to save her from reaching in to take a brain into her hands. “The alcohol will burn your skin! You ought never to do this without gloves.” _

_ Annie had looked up at him from under her lashes. “Are you concerned for the state of my hands?” _

_ “Very,” Alexander had assured her, then promptly lost his power of speech, when she’d lifted one of those gloveless hands to his cheek.  _

_ “And my virtue?” _

_ “I should hope that finds itself safe with me, Miss Camden.” _

_ “Annie,” she’d told him then, gentle, her hand traveling downward until it settled over his heart, until she could feel the erratic beat of it through the layers of fabric, clear as anything. “I’ve told you before to call me Annie.” _

_ “I dare not,” he’d whispered, though he had dared to cover her hand with his own, rough skin upon soft.  _

_ “Then I must dare,” Annie had said, and promptly pulled at his neck until she’d brought him low enough for her lips to reach his.  _

_ + _

Mister Jopson admits him to the wardroom with a polite nod of his head, eyes averted. Out of the way, never speaking unless spoken to, but ready to manifest into existence if needed. His behavior is commendable, really: he is exceptionally trained. Not that Armitage is a bad steward, not at all.

Only Lieutenant Little remains with Crozier now. The long table where the officer’s take their dinner is covered by maps; various sextants and the like are strewn about or used as paper-weight. “What do you make of that, Edward?”

_ Terror _ ’s first lieutenant frowns as he rubs a hand over his face. “I cannot accurately predict which way the leads will be open in the winter this far from Lancaster Sound, nor can Mister Blanky.”

“We’ll be there before we know it - you need a plan today, or better yet, yesterday.” Crozier shakes his head, downing his glass in one and motioning smoothly for another before even noticing Alexander’s presence. When he does, he’s gracious, welcoming. “Good evening, Doctor. Jopson, bring a glass for the man, would you?”

Once more he turns to Little. “You can re-evaluate when the tides change, Edward, but you cannot sail into those straits without an inkling of a plan. There are scores of men whose lives depend on your decisions.”

“South, then,” the lieutenant suggests, “we’ll steer clear of an arctic continent, if there is one as we suspect, and see how long it takes us to find a coast we can sail along.”

“Not very bold, that. Hugging the nunavut coast,” Crozier derides. “Not very _ audacious _ . We may as well find the passage over land. What is  _ Terror _ for, then?”

“He’s right to be cautious,” Alexander says, peering over Lieutenant Little’s shoulder. “Gives us the possibility of walking out with some of the smaller boats, God forbid that it should ever be necessary.” The history of arctic exploration tells a sad tale of how often it is necessary. But then, he is a surgeon, not a sailor. 

“I’d thought it overly bold merely to rely on the coast of Cornwallis Land as long as we are able, Sir, as the ice might force us against some masses of land we’ve not yet discovered in the blank space.” Little follows the path with his fingers. “Though perhaps we might sail straight through, if we keep our course set west long enough. It is not impossible.”

“Others have tried that,” Crozier dismisses. “The ice comes down too hard from the north. No reason why we should be successful when others have not been.”

“There’s always luck,” Alexander smiles, accepting a glass from Jopson. 

“ _ Luck _ ,” Crozier spits out the word like it’s something foul. “Luck is what you have left when you’ve shot the brown already, Doctor MacDonald. Luck toys with your hopes and spits you out half-digested. What have you to report?”

“With Doctor Peddie’s compliments, I’m to report that we have now observed three probable cases of consumption. He recommends that we send them back with the  _ Baretto Junior _ when she leaves us for England.”

“Who is it this time?” Crozier frowns. 

“One of the marines, Sir,” Alexander tells him. “Private Aitken. He collapsed into a coughing fit after standing Middle Watch last night. From Sergeant Tozer’s account I take there to have been a considerable amount of blood involved.”

“Edward, get word of this to Sir John. Be sure to include Doctor Peddie’s recommendation  _ as well as _ his compliments.”

“Yes, Sir.” Lieutenant Little stands without delay, slipping into the coat Jopson holds ready for him and exiting the cabin without another word. 

“Doctor Peddie also wished for me to stress that it is entirely probable, even now that we have isolated those affected, that many more of our men might grow afflicted.”

“And do you agree with Doctor Peddie’s probabilities?”

“Frankly, Sir, yes I do. What we know of the sickness is not exhaustive, but it has been recorded that it can have a considerable period of latency. An individual need not necessarily exhibit symptoms to pose a danger to those in his proximity,” Alexander explains. “The men are crammed together below deck, there is little to no circulation of air...”

“Damned miasma, is that right?” Crozier sighs, sniffing at his glass before swallowing that down in one swig as well. He sets it down on the table, hard. “So what am I to do? Recommend to the men that they sleep on deck for a bit of fresh air?”

“Well, at least for now the temperatures are bearable,” Alexander muses, not given to cowering from Crozier’s formidable temper, even when it begins to rear its head in his direction. Jopson is quick to fill empty glasses, and the beast quiets down, mollified. “But I daresay the rain would make for more cases in our sick bay, Sir.”

_ Terror’s  _ Captain huffs out a dull echo of a laugh, turning his crystal glass over in his hand, observing the movement of the brown liquid within. “Your candor, Doctor MacDonald, is appreciated. Tell Doctor Peddie I expect the next report to come directly from him. We must all deal with unpleasantness in our chosen line of work. I expect no less of my surgeons than I do my men, is that understood?”

“I’ll relay it word for word,” Alexander assures him. “Good night, Captain.”

+

“Deep breath, now,” Alexander instructs, frowning as he concentrates on the excursions of Mister Carr’s thorax. It is slightly uneven on the right, he notes. “Mister Carr,” he asks  _ Terror’s _ armourer, “have you ever suffered from a collapsed lung?”

“Wouldn’t be here to tell you of it if I had, I reckon,” the armourer draws another gulping breath. “Somethin’ wrong with me lungs, Doctor?”

“I think the issue might be localized thereabouts, yes,” Alexander says. “I would prefer a more thorough differential.”

“Right,” nods the armourer. “You’re the captain of the sick bay, eh?”

“That honour belongs to Doctor Peddie, I should think,” Alexander corrects. “You say you’ve trouble breathing, Mister Carr?”

“Right enough,” confirms the armourer. “Worse when I lie down, then it feels like there’s a bloody anvil weighing down me chest.”

“I’ll just be tapping around a bit now. Continue to breathe as evenly as you can.”

Hyposonoric, Alexander notes, down at the base. He might have guessed it! “That will be all, Mister Carr.”

+

He brings the case to Peddie after dinner - once he’s turned down Mister Blanky’s well-meant offer of a game of chess, that is, and listened to a boat-load of disappointed grumbling interspersed with laughter. 

_ (“You’d deny an old man his only joy, you fiend.” _

_ “Oh, go have a climb about the deck, Mister Blanky, that’ll sort you out quicker than losing to me again.”)  _

“You don’t think it’s consumption?”

“He’s certainly  _ consumptive _ .” Alexander formulates the thought which had bothered him all day. “Our Mister Carr presents with symptoms I’d expect in a man of seventy, whose heart was surely failing him. The fluid in his lungs, the respiratory distress, not to mention the fainting spells. His pulse is weakened distal of the thigh - but he’s only twenty-three.”

“Could very well be consumption,” Peddie supposes, intrigued when presented with such a mystery. “I’d like to have a look at our man in the morning. There needn’t always be dramatic purgings of blood, you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware, John, thank you,” Alexander retorts. “When I said that he seems consumptive I did so precisely because there seems to be something wasting him away. I thought perhaps a cancer.”

“Cancer? In a young man of three and twenty?”

“His father was an armourer, same as he, he’s been wanting fresh air all his life,” Alexander recounts. “Told me his father passed before he reached fourty, huffing and puffing for every breath at the end.” 

“That is interesting,” Peddie admits. “I’ll include him amongst those recommended for the  _ Baretto Junior _ , most likely. We shan’t risk your brilliant hypothesis being false, I think, Alexander. It might very well be consumption after all.”

“Aye,” Alexander sighs into his tea. “It might.”


	6. Tozer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy Armitage has blue, blue eyes. Ask Sol how he knows.

Chapter Six - Tozer

July 1845, Greenland, ahoy!

“What’d’ye reckon they make in a year on a whaler?” Heather wonders as he crowds against the gunwale next to Sol. All the men not strictly on duty are gathered to wave at the ship the lookout spotted half an hour ago. She’s drawing near now, after being freely invited to do so by the flagship. 

“Depends on the skill of the crew, don’t it?” Sol retorts. Won’t be long before they start shouting for a salute, so he reckons he’s right not to go below just yet. “If you’re as sorry a shot with a harpoon as you are with a rifle, Billy, you won’t make much.” 

“Ha!” Heather’s elbow meets the side of his uniform. The force of it sends him barreling into Strong, damned near causing a scuffle. Strong’s a gentle beast, mercifully, and despite his towering form, he’s lithe rather than thick-set. The seaman only gives Sol a grin and a promise to return the favour when he’s got his grog in hand tonight before turning back to pointing out things on the whaleboat to young Evans. 

“No need to disparage me just because you’d make more standing upright in an alley,” Heather snorts, folding his head onto his arms for but a moment; a brief spell of calm on an otherwise hectic deck. Sol knows better than to consider any weight behind such teasing, has repaid it in kind again and again. It’s familiar, is what it is. “I’d do alright with a harpoon. Can’t be that hard, can it?”

Sol wonders sometimes if Heather caught on where he used to go after Sunday service when they were stationed in Portsmouth all those summers ago. Billy wouldn’t be the type to force a confrontation if he had, he thinks. He’s kind like that - would dutifully ignore it, perhaps even convince himself that he’d cooked it up in his head. Right enough, while it has never mattered to Sol where he dips his wick, the Admiralty is awfully adamant it only be the ladies who can find their delight in him. Or, rather: on him. Don’t matter either way to Sol.

Lieutenant Irving gathers the men for an announcement once they’ve shown the passing boats the respect they are due. They’ve been given the chance to pen a final letter. When Sol throws the effects of his pen in with the lot already rustling around in the bag put up in the mess for this purpose, he’s ribbed for it, just as he expected. His sister will be glad to hear from him, he supposes. Sol can take the teasing, it’s all kindly meant. 

“Sent her my love, I hope.” Billy winks.

“Not my fault half of you idiots don’t know your letters,” Sol grumbles as he has a seat. “Shift it, Wilkes, you’ve the next watch by my count.” 

The private gives a little too much lip for Sol’s liking, pouting as though Sol ever asked more of him than the sorry job he does. He slides into Wilkes’ spot, next to the blue-eyed steward - next to Tommy, as the marines who’ve all but adopted the lad have taken to calling him. “Nowhere to be, Mister Armitage?” 

“They’ve all gone over to Erebus, Sergeant, to have a chat with the whalers,” Hedges intercedes on the steward’s behalf. “Leave the lad to his rest, why don’t you?”

“Doing your bidding now, is he?” Sol sneers, looking into Hedges’ beady eyes and wondering what, precisely, the corporal is after. Hedges is a decent second and a fair shot, but he don’t know much of the man’s character, in truth, and Armitage seems just the right amount of impressionable for a man looking to take advantage on a lonely night. Some men are more likely to press for an advantage than others.

“No such thing,” Hedges laughs, “Tommy’s just a brick, isn’t he?”

Mister Armitage’s smile is an innocent thing, still earnest even in the face of obvious flattery. Shouldn’t matter to Sol, only he has to admit he’d hate to see him publicly repaired, should things go south on an adventure of Hedges’ planning. These things happen, and often enough. 

“Guess we’ll be crossing into Lancaster Sound any day then,” Private Hammond pipes up from the far end of the table, voice carrying clear across the room. “Right, Sergeant?”

He feels the following lull in conversation all across the room and wishes it weren’t what it were. “Weather’s shite, at present,” Sol tarries. That’s what Mister Blanky said to him during watch, anyway. He’ll take the ice master’s word for it - bound to be the best they’ll get. 

“Getting late in the year though, isn’t it just?” Armitage adds. “Hear the ice is only broken up about ten weeks a year, all told.”

“Fancy that,” Hammond grins. “Suppose we’ll have to be quick about finding that passage then, and get your pasty face back under a pacific sun before you turn invisible, Tommy.”

“More likely we’ll be frozen in.” Daly briefly pauses his frantic inhalation of surprise stew - called that on account of Mister Diggle’s recent success in making a dish from the cans that a man can stomach - to add, “overwinter where it’s safe, and then try again come the thaw.”

“Another year of food like this and I’ll walk clear across the ice myself,” Hedges snorts. “Wrestle one of them bears with my bare hands. Shoot some caribou, maybe.”

“When’s the last time you hit something you aimed at, Corporal?” Daly asks. 

“Today’s what Aitken would call a good day though, where dinner’s concerned,” Hammond muses, letting the dark brown mush drip from his overturned spoon back into his bowl. “Don’t taste half-bad, that.”

Sol misses Aitken sometimes. That was a man who knew when to pipe down, and not just when he hadn’t the breath to stop coughing. Daly’s a bit like that, minus the endless hacking, and Daly is quickly gaining his favour with his habitual silences. It helps that he’s quick to follow orders, too, and a fair hand at skat who doesn’t mourn his losses or boast of his winnings overly much. 

+

Lieutenant Little is a hulking shadow at the gunwale near the mainmast, drumming his fingers on the wood almost absent-mindedly. He’d greeted Sol with a nod some fifteen minutes ago now and has since resolved to stand the watch without another word, it seems. 

There’s one extreme - Sol shudders for thinking of Hodgson - and then there’s the other, where these officers are concerned.

“Heard you served under Captain Nicolas in ‘42.” Sol finally gives in to the urge to speak, filling the silence with something only slightly more comfortable than the stiff nods they’d left it at. Decides to start with what he’s learned from dinner musings in the mess. “Sailed with him in ‘34 when I first joined up.”

A very vain man who had just made captain, strict with the spirits on board and fast with a lashing. Rumor has it losing Vindictive and the court-martial that followed humbled him some, but after he’d seen the last of him Sol’s thoughts hadn’t extended past good fucking riddance. 

Lieutenant Little is sure to have been a lieutenant already by then, if his encounters were as recent as ‘42, and therefore will have been spared the corporal aspects of Captain Nicolas’ discipline, but few of the men in ‘34 were. 

“Not for very long,” Lieutenant Little says, “only patrol duty on the channel - nothing exciting.”

“Is that right?” Sol laughs. “Reckon it’s to you what manning a port garrison is to us Jollies, eh?”

“Are you more per mare than per terram, then?” the Lieutenant asks, after an over-long stretch of silence. His eyes are trained on the wide expanse of sea ahead of them, looking-glass folded neatly into the crook of his arm. 

“Could say that, aye,” Sol finds himself agreeing. Some folks prefer the cities for their stationing. Boring as it is - only guard duty and the like, standing about in the heat while plush officers get drunk off their arses - you’ve got time and coin to spare, which makes for ample opportunity to spend the latter on willing company or drink, as you like. “Suppose I preferred Africa. I like a good fight, me.”

“Hm,” says Lieutenant Little, not appearing overly impressed. “Yes, I hear you’re a decent shot, Sergeant.”

“Someone been telling you that, Sir?”

“You hear a great many things on a ship.”

“Hear rats down below, mostly,” Sol supplies. Fair bit of snoring, also. Some indiscreet grunts. 

“I hear them too, at night,” Little frowns. “They’re multiplying. Before long, I’ll find them scurrying around in my cabin, I expect.”

“No respect for officers’ country.” Sol clucks his tongue. “Disrespectful little beasts.”

“Yes, quite-- I say! Is Bailey asleep on watch?”

Little shouts an order to the slumped figure near the mizzenmast, and when the AB gives no response, he gives Sol a curt nod and goes to dispense discipline. 

+

Armitage has a basket of work at his feet. One knee props up his current project, and a needle glitters between his teeth as he laughs at the joke Billy’s just told when Sol finds them. His eyes have gone all crinkled at the corners, real soft-like. 

“Better be officers’ linen you’re mending there, Mister Armitage,” Sol grumbles, kicking at Hammond to make room on his sea chest. He begins to ease his boots off, ready to have a nice little lie down, but can’t help wincing audibly at the pain constant stress has worn into his foot. 

“Course it is, Sergeant,” Armitage assures him, wide eyes guileless. “Mister Blanky’s gone and torn a hole clean through his elbow here.”

“How’d he manage that, do you reckon?” Daly grins. 

“In the ropes, I suppose,” Armitage answers, face thoughtful. “Climbs around up there like one of the ship’s boys, some days.”

“Seen him up there sometimes, during watch,” Wilkes laughs, “Looks half-mad, don’t he?”

“Aye, just so,” Hammond agrees. “Gave up some of his wits for mastery of the ice, you’d think.”

“Careful, Hammond,” Sol warns.

It’s likely Mister Blanky would only laugh all the more deeply for hearing such things whispered of him, but still. The articles hold, don’t they? Captain Crozier reads them out every Sunday in his rough brogue - there’s no room to misunderstand them.

“Oh, come off it, Sol. No one’s around to hear,” Heather laughs.

Marines keep themselves separate, so they do, not being seamen and not being officers, neither. Doesn't make for pleasant sailing if you’ve no cause to rejoice in your company of Jollies. Sol’s far from minding a bit of fun, but there’s Armitage, sitting and doing his mending before he traipses right back into officers’ country, to serve the very man Hammond’s just derided. Beats him how the rest of his lot don’t reckon there’s some risk involved talking so openly around one of them. 

“Something the matter, Sergeant?” Hammond asks, after Sol’s been frowning at the scarred tissue beneath his hand long enough to miss a question thrown his way, but Sol is already waving off his concern and making for his hammock. Some rest will do him good.


	7. Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Area man displeased to note he can receive emails in the arctic ft. the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known

**Chapter Seven - Little**

_ Late July, 1845 - Lancaster Sound _

“Leads open due north according to Mister Reid,” Edward informs Mister Blanky after he has deciphered  _ Erebus _ ’ flags, feeling slightly awed as he watches his breath fog up in front of his eyes. Colder climes, indeed. “ _ Erebus _ would have you confirm it.”

“I’ll only do that if it’s true,” Blanky howls. He is already on his way up the masts. “Send me up Evans, would you?”

Edward watches the ice master’s steady ascent with a healthy amount of respect, considering his age. He gives a shout for the ship’s boy in question and waits at the gunwale for the patter of his boots, the swift, overexcited steps you can hear coming from a mile away. “I’m very sure you’ve duty on deck right now.” Edward raises his brow when the panting ship’s boy salutes him. “What were you doing below?”

“Mister Hickey needed a hand, Sir, and Bobby wasn’t around just now.”

“Are you a caulker now, Evans?”

“No, Sir, ‘am not.”

Edward scuffs him, only a small jostle. “Don’t be going around doing his job for him, now. It’s Mister Peglar you should be listening to.”

“Not yourself, Sir?”

“Don’t get smart with me, boy,” Edward warns. “Up you go. Mister Blanky is waiting.”

His steps take him below soon thereafter, where he finds the small figure of the caulker’s mate sitting on a sea chest and looking awfully pleased with himself. Mister Gibson stands with him, hands on his hips, his eyebrows raised. Next to Mister Gibson is a basket of abandoned mending. The tableau tells its own story.

“Lieutenant Little, Sir,” Hickey smiles in greeting. “Need anything?”

“Shall I go to Mister Darlington and tell him not to overwork you so, Mister Hickey?”

His words have the desired effect. The rat’s face pinches, but he jumps off his seat. 

“No need for that, Sir,” he claims. “Just having a chat - think that’s not against the articles, but I could be mistaken.”

Sea-lawyers on every ship, indeed.

“There’s time for that once you’ve seen to your duties,” Edward says. “Tell Mister Lane to mark you down three weeks' duty owing and know I’ll double it if I catch you lazing about like that again.”

“You won’t, Sir,” Hickey assures him. 

By which the man likely means Edward won’t catch him. Hm. Gibson remains standing dumbly, watching Hickey whistle as he makes his way down the length of the ship. There’s always something that needs caulking; Mister Hickey has no reason to be so idle. Edward leaves Gibson be, though he’s not very hopeful that Irving’s cuffs will be mended by tomorrow. Good thing Genge doesn’t dawdle half as much.

+

Crozier comes on deck around noon, blinking as though he’s not long been for the waking world. Edward looks over his shoulder, away from the square-rigged masts. “Are we back and filling, Edward? Don’t remember ordering that.”

“Wind’s blowing us north and northwest in turns,” Edward explains. “Thought we’d ride what small distance the tide can carry us until we have to start forcing our way.”

“Carry on.” Crozier nods his approval. “I’ll be in my cabin. You can join me for lunch and report. Let’s give our George a shot at command every now and then.”

+

_ August, 1845 - on the Wellington Channel _

_ Terror’s _ sick bay is empty save for the lonely form of Doctor MacDonald, bent over his journal and scribbling furiously. “I thought I’d save you a trip, Doctor,” says Edward when the doctor finally registers his presence, surprise plain. “I’m to meet the Captain after my rounds. Anything to report?”

“Nothing past a few upset stomachs,” the doctor assures him. “No consumptive patients past those we left behind on the  _ Baretto Jr. _ , Sir.”

“That sounds promising.”

“A few splinter wounds, here and there,” he continues. “Nothing that puts us out of our depths.”

“Let us hope things stay as they are, then,” Edward nods. 

+

They’ve been sailing west of Cornwallis land - always due north - for about a week now, into increasingly thicker ice. Secondary orders, Edward understands, are to find the pole, should they not find the passage, though he does not think they will have an easier time ahead of them should that be the case. As things stand now, he supposes they shall have to reconsider their course again, and soon. It’s getting colder, he can tell that after being on deck for only a minute or so.

“Just so,” Edward says, once more tugging on the length of rope and tightening it on the wooden beam. “Learned that from the French.”

“Did they tie you up with it, Sir?” Evans asks, wide-eyed, quickly looking up from the secured knot to gape directly at him. “Reckon if they did you were quick to escape.”

“We have not been at war with the French in thirty years, Evans.” Edward clicks his tongue. Well, not directly, he supposes. Explaining the politics of the Levant is wasted on Edward, but one hears things nonetheless. There may have been a skirmish or two with the French. “Are you calling me old?”

“You don’t look it, Sir, to be sure!” Evans stammers. 

He lets that remark slide, privately amused. “Go on and show us, then.”

“What, me?”

“No, my maiden aunt Sarah,” sighs Edward. For all his talents the boy severely lacks a bit of faith in himself. “Go on, Thom. That’s twice now I’ve shown you. Don’t disappoint me.”

With trembling hands, Evans gets to work, periodically giving nervous glances, startling time and time again when he sees that Edward is still watching him. Edward crosses his arms when Evans nervously holds the rope out for inspection. “How do you suppose you did?” 

“It’s a knot, Sir,” he squeaks. 

“So it is, Evans, but is it the one I just showed you, do you think?”

He hears footsteps behind him, a presence he cannot long ignore, but to transform once more into the sternest of lieutenants now would not help in fostering a mind he has found to be quite keen. He bites the bullet of perhaps being known, in the future, to be capable of exhibiting the occasional kindness, and continues his gentle instruction. “See here,” he explains, “compare mine to yours. When I pull on yours here, it comes apart. There’s a subtle difference. Put your mind to it, you’ll figure it out shortly.” 

“Lieutenant Little, Sir,” Jopson announces from somewhere over his shoulder. 

“Yes?”

The steward’s nose is quite red when Edward turns his head to see it. “Captain Crozier sends for you, Sir.”

“I’ll be down shortly.”

Evans is biting his lip, nervous still. “You’ve twisted the ends together and I didn’t.”

“Exactly right,” Edward nods. “That’s the whole of it. Now practise that until you can do it in your sleep.”

“Won’t Bobby be jealous of little old me, now?” Evans grins to himself. “Thank you kindly, Sir.”

“Is Golding giving you a hard time, Evans?” 

“No, course not,” Evans stammers. “It’s just that he’s older, like, so he considers himself more of a man than me, and he’s been talking to Mister Hickey so often, and he don’t like me much at all, do he?”

“Hm.” What is one to make of that? “Show him up in the ropes the best you can, then.”

Jopson’s eyes are boring into his neck the whole way to the wardroom. He’s never been as conscious of it as he is today, though the steward has been sent to fetch him on many occasions. His cheeks burn from having had a witness to a teaching moment, but he may put that down to the cold.

Edward studiously avoids looking over his shoulder. 

+

“Just here.” Irving is fixing his pencil on the map. “That is where my calculations put us.”

“Mine, too,” concurs Mister MacBean. Hodgson remains pointedly silent. John Irving is the very best of them when it comes to arithmetic exertions, and if a fixed position differs from his one runs a high risk of embarrassment in front of the captain and assembled officers if one insists upon clinging to one’s results.

“Which tells us what, gentlemen?” Crozier presses, keeping one hand behind his back and the other around his customary glass. 

“That Cornwallis land slopes due west, Sir,” Mister MacBean says. 

“Precisely.” Crozier points at him, wagging his finger to maximize rhetoric effect. “And what can we infer from that, Mister Thomas?”

Robert steps closer to the map. Irving gives him room for a proper look. “That--” He clears his throat, and then starts again, less scratchy. “That we are also heading west, Sir?”

Crozier snorts. “Capital, Mister Thomas. Should we change course?”

“I suppose not, Sir?”

“Why do you _ suppose _ ?”

“Be- because Mister Blanky’s just reported that a land mass is blocking our path north, Sir.” Robert seems relieved to have come up with that answer, possibly hoping Crozier will turn this line of questioning on another officer, but he has no such luck. 

“Then why aren’t we doubling back down Wellington Channel, I ask?” Crozier sets his glass down gently, wasting not a single drop. His palm connects soundly with the wooden table. “Tell me that, Mister Thomas, why don’t you?”

Several of the men assembled surreptitiously steal glances at one another. It is not often that Crozier does this, but when the captain asks a question, you had better hope your answer is satisfactory. 

“Well--” Robert has gone red in the face. His nails dig into the flesh of his palm, hard enough that he may yet draw blood. “I apologize, Sir. I do not know.”

“Lieutenant Little, if you would,” Crozier barks. 

He sets his own glass down, reaching for the pencil Irving long abandoned. Positioning it at an angle he hopes is not an overly rough estimation, he begins to explain, “If we follow our current course headed north by west - correcting more due west and then south the further we go, we can reasonably expect to find that Cornwallis land may, in fact, be Cornwallis  _ island _ .”

Crozier nods. “Which would lead us where, Mister Thomas?”

“Barrow Strait, Sir?”

“Be sure about your answer, damn your eyes!”

“Yes,” Robert doubles down after catching Edward’s miniscule nod with a desperate glance. “It will be Barrow Strait, Sir.”

“Bravo, Mister Thomas,” Crozier commends, a sardonic smile stretching his lips. “We’ll make a lieutenant of you yet. Barrow Strait must be our aim these next few weeks.

“I bid you return to your duties, gentlemen,” the captain says, ending the meeting and prompting tangible relief amongst those gathered. Mister Hornby has a consoling arm about Robert’s shoulder, ruffling his hair as he leads them from the room. Edward turns to leave but is stopped from doing so by Mister Blanky’s firm hand on his own shoulder. 

“Don’t think we didn’t see that, Edward,” he laughs. “Tried to save the poor fool’s arse back there, eh?”

“He had the right of it,” Edward maintains. 

“Been doing your reading,” Crozier observes, slumping in his chair as if the effort of leading a command meeting has proven overly much for one day. Edward’s not certain whether that is a compliment, and so chooses not to respond until Crozier’s mood is better understood. 

“Summat on your mind, Frank?” Blanky asks, nudging the Captain’s knee with his toe to shake him out of deep reveries. 

“The ice won’t stay like this for much longer, Thomas,” sighs Crozier, pinching his nose tightly and blinking hard once, then twice. He opens them to look critically at Edward. “Where do we go from here?”

Circumvent what is hopefully Cornwallis Island, for a first step, but that is not what Crozier is asking him. “We find a place to pass the winter in relative safety,” Edward says with reasonable confidence. 

“Where?”

Blanky leans back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach. Edward is sure he’s having a grand time, sitting there with all his knowledge bottled up inside of him. It’s good of Crozier to wait to embarrass Edward until the other ranking officers have been dismissed, at least. 

“If we make it back down Barrow Strait here,” Edward suggests, tapping the designated spot, “We might yet have time to reach Beechey Island. I think that would be our best option.”

“Why?”

“It would protect us from any pack ice coming down from the north, for one,” Edward points out, “given its shoreline. We also know there’s some game to be had. That way we could restock.”

“Suppose we do not reach Beechey in time,” Blanky throws in, taking over for Crozier, who has begun rubbing at his temples and looks about ready for bed. 

“In a pinch any island with a large south-eastern coast might do, Mister Blanky,” Edward responds, emptying his brandy. “But I should prefer the familiarity of Beechey Island.”

“That’s good thinking, Edward.” Crozier nods. “All that’s left now is to convince Sir John we’ve the right of it.”

He drags himself up to stand. “I’m off to bed, gentlemen. Do feel free to come up with a strategy.”

+

“Sir John and Commander Fitzjames are coming aboard tonight,” Mister MacBean tells him some days later. “ _ Erebus _ has just signalled.”

“Captain Crozier will be pleased,” answers Edward, not at all convinced there’s an ounce of truth to be found in those words. “I’ll go and tell him myself. Thank you, Giles.”

(“Return to Beechey, you say?” 

“Yes, Sir John.” 

“I should have known,” Sir John laughs, shaking his head like a fond but exasperated mother. “Trust  _ you _ to suggest circling back time and time again.” 

“I, Sir—”

“I’ll consider it, Francis.”)

By the time Edward makes it to bed he has quite the headache. Genge chuckles when he says as much. “Pity it isn’t even from a good drop, Sir.” 

“How right,” sighs Edward. He considers his steward carefully. Another Edward - they share a name and a routine, but little else. 

“Might I recommend, Sir,” Genge offers as he folds Edward’s waistcoat over his arm, ready to take it away for laundering, “one of Doctor Peddie’s compresses for your forehead?” 

“Very good, Genge,” Edward yawns, sitting on the edge of his cot and unfastening his boots. This, he wants no help with, and he supposes Genge might even be glad for that. “Have one brought to me, if you would.”


	8. Peglar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s crimmas 1845. Merry Chrysler. Happy Crisis.

**Chapter Eight - Peglar**

_ December 1845 - Beechey Island _

There are worse places to pass a winter than Beechey Island. It may be cold, nearly barren, and unbelievably windy, but they could all be lying dead at the bottom of an icy sea, for example. They’ll never know how close they came to being crushed by the pack, west from here in Barrow Strait. Some higher power knows, maybe. Harry’s glad to be alive, is all, even if he’s alive on solid, unenticing ground instead of the rigging. Now that the masts have been all but stowed away, there’s little for him to do.

“Big feast planned then, do you suppose?” 

Harry turns towards Sinclair, who has only just dropped the canvas he’s carried inland with him. “It’s only Christmas.” Harry drops his own bundle unceremoniously. “No reason to splurge.”

“Having me on, Mister Peglar?”

“Could be,” he grins. 

“Well, I’ve heard a rumour, I have,” Crispe joins in, coming around the edge of the tent he’s been helping Johnson erect, “that Mister Diggle’s been preparing Lady Jane’s Christmas Pudding.”

“Aye, he might be, Crispe,” Sinclair allows, “but that’ll be for the officers, Sammy. Stuff we can only dream of.”

“You’ll get your bread and pudding, don’t fret too hard,” Harry tells him. 

“Miss a good pudding, me.” Sinclair sounds half-caught in a dream. “Bates’ been going on and on about his Mam’s pork puddings. Mouth waters just thinking about it.”

“Don’t think Mister Diggle can waltz with Bates’ Mam, Will.” Crispe shakes his head. “Half the stuff he makes I haven’t the stomach for, and my Pa always said I were made of steel inside.”

“D’you reckon we’ll have fresh meat?”

“Depends on what them lobsterbacks can catch in their hunting parties, don’t it?”

It being near Christmas, Harry doesn’t feel quite right reprimanding them for dawdling. As long as they do what’s asked of them, they should be free to fill their time as they like. 

+

_ Terror’s _ deck is a thrum of anticipation tonight as, come tomorrow, they’ll all make for land, having been promised celebrations by a dour-faced Captain Crozier. During the announcement he looked as though he’d rather sentence every man aboard to fifty lashes, but they’ve long since learned that to be his resting expression. 

That’s alright, he supposes. Lieutenant Hodgson does enough smiling for all the rest of the officers combined, and Mister Blanky is always quick with a laugh. 

“--I’m just saying something, aren’t I?” A pesky, long familiar voice can be heard not far to Harry’s right. He had wanted a bit of quiet, is all; had wanted some time to marvel at the frozen ice all around them. What an experience that had been, feeling with every unsteady step how  _ Terror _ had slowly become increasingly immobile. They’d had quite a job keeping her balanced, but even so, she now veers about twelve inches and a half off an even position. Everyone’s more or less adjusted to that, and Harry’s noted with some satisfaction that, following a rough tumble, Evans has stopped dashing across the deck like some mad baby deer. 

“That’s still allowed, isn’t it?” Mister Hickey asks, rolling himself one of those new cigarettes some of the men who haven’t thought to bring a pipe have taken to. 

“What were you expecting when you signed on to the discovery service, mate?” one of the marines ridicules, giving Mister Hickey a shove that could have been harder, if anyone cared to ask Harry. 

“Balmy weather clear across to Oahu, no doubt,” their sergeant snorts, passing by on his way aft. 

“All I know,” Hickey continues undeterred after pulling a face at the sergeant’s back, “is that we’re back where we were in July, and I don’t know if we’ve got much to show for it, gents.”

That would be the extent of a caulker’s mate’s knowledge. Harry rolls his eyes, pushing away from the gunwale he’s been so comfortably leaning against. That man is courting the lash, and somebody had better caution him away from such a course before he finds himself pressed into a public spectacle he wants no part of. “Yes, and why _ would  _ you know, Mister Hickey? You’re a first-timer, if I recall correctly. Have you been hiding a decade of arctic experience from us all?”

“Can’t say I have, Mister Peglar,” Mister Hickey grins, lighting his cigarette in the flame of Davey Leys’ lantern. “But a man can form his opinion either way, can’t he? Freedom of speech, and all that. Not the worst idea the frogs have had.”

“Can you use a sextant, Mister Hickey? Can you fix our position on a map? Can you read a map - any map? I suspect not, and in that case your opinion cannot be based on anything but wild speculation and is therefore not only irrelevant, but harmful to your own hide if you carry on spouting it freely as you do now.” Harry lowers his voice, hoping Hickey will take it for a well-meant rebuke rather than an insult. “Mind yourself, man.”

Without waiting for a response, Harry turns on his heels to go below. The afternoon air has been spoiled for him anyway. 

+

On the day of their promised feast Sergeant Tozer’s hunting party returns with a sledge full of fur - a great white bear, Harry hears the men who got a first look murmur. The air is filled with awe. It’s easy to cheer for them, knowing the  _ Terrors _ have the  _ Erebites _ beat; they’d only hauled back a bit of seal meat when they were sent out last week. 

Heather and Manson lift the Sergeant onto their shoulders as the men cheer them on. “Every shot a winner for our sergeant, lads!” Private Heather bellows to loud stamping and hooting. “Tonight, we feast!” 

Spirits run understandably high in preparation, and most of the day Harry feels half-caught in a daze, eager for his own, private reasons. Tonight, he knows, will see him reunited with a face he’d last seen boarding  _ Erebus _ in early May. He himself had gone onto  _ Terror _ only moments later. Although they have sent messages back and forth, a joke made here and there about Bridgens being his back-up library now that Harry had already made substantial progress throughout  _ Terror’ _ s volumes, he’s not seen John’s face since May. Privately, he wonders if he will find it much altered by the arctic climes, though this is one of the few musings he won’t share with John. In all the years Harry has known him, his face has been much the same - a kind one. 

If John is to be believed, he had his first wrinkles at the tender age of eighteen, his wisened soul always ruining any pretension to youthfulness. Harry has always been more partial to the idea that John does not want to admit he was as much of a fool as anyone when he was a young man. Oh, he misses John, and their conversations still more. 

So if Harry has used that fine oil in his beard Rose once gave him to see him off, what of it? He’s already had this bottle much longer than anyone might have expected it to last, at this rate it’ll go rancid before he’s used it up. Tonight’s meant to be a celebration, it’s allowed. Most of the men have put on their best, no one could accuse Harry of ulterior motives for wanting to look sharp.

He sits near the grill where Mister Diggle has set up his station for the evening, warming his bones by the fire and his innards with grog as he listens to Billy Orren regale the men with some anecdote about Lt. Le Vesconte Harry is sure he made up entirely. 

“--and so he says to me, the Lieutenant does, that we’ll not know the bear meat from the pork of our dreams.”

“I’ll give you the porking of your dreams if you don’t shut your gob,” Weekes grumbles. 

“That supposed to induce me, Weekes? Break out your hammer, I’m all for it,” Orren says to  _ Erebus’ _ carpenter, winking before launching right back into his story.

“But of course that’s not so,” protests Georgie, one of  _ Erebus’ _ boys. “What with how awful the bear meat smells, sure you’d be able to taste the difference.” 

Harry hides his snort in his cup when he sees the boys’ words have garnered Mister Diggle’s attention. Their eyes meet. Harry raises his eyebrows, watching the Diggle’s tongue push his cheek out, before the cook turns to ask, “That an insult to my cooking, Chambers?”

“Sure no one could do better,” George stammers, unfamiliar with the habitual tones of  _ Terror’s _ cook as well as his temper, which does not rival Mister Wall’s. Diggle’s a peaceable man, but he can play at a thunderous disposition with the best of them. 

“Tell you what, Georgie,” suggests John Morfin as he has a seat next to Weekes, “why don’t you ask Mister Diggle here to kindly give you a bite of pork and bear both, and see if you can tell the difference?”

“I’ll stand you a smoke for getting it right, even,” cajoles Torrington, the stoker. “Couldn’t tell the difference, me, when he had me try it.” 

“Do I owe you a smoke if I get it wrong, then?” George frowns, brow quizzical. “I’ve hardly any tobacco left.”

“I’ll not insist upon it.” Torrington nudges him with his shoulder. “Just giving you a bit of incentive.”

“I’ll strike two days off your duty owing,” says Mister Terry, having just appeared to rub his hands near the fire. “What do you say, boy?”

“Very well,” Georgie submits to the test, letting out a nervous exhalation. 

“Mister Diggle, if you please,” Harry calls out to the cook, who has been hard at work pretending not to follow their conversation. “Let us settle the matter!”

Stern mask firmly fixed, Diggle sets a plate down in front of George and leans over the table to glare the boy down. Carefully, George nibbles at one piece and then the other. He closes his eyes, even, to better concentrate, which Harry admits must be hard while a dozen men or more are eager to see you embarrass yourself. 

“Well?” prompts Mister Terry, after a while. 

George points to the left piece, though he seems far from certain. “That one’s the bear.”

Diggle grins and firmly pats George’s cheek. “They’re both pork, you dolt.”

The boy’s embarrassment serves for much laughter around the table, but Diggle soon takes pity on him. “Happy Christmas, Georgie, now have your treat and help me finish cooking.”

“Yes, Mister Diggle.” George stuffs the pieces into his mouth before he vaults the table to get to work. When Evans comes whistling into the tent a few minutes later, Diggle nudges the boy to action. Quick to keep the joke going, he calls out, “Oi, Evans, reckon you can do better than me telling this meat apart?”

“Tried that trick on me already, the old man has, like I haven’t helped him with the pork before,” Evans grins, ducking just in time to avoid the swat Diggle had intended for his head. “We’ll have a try at Golding, though, be the ticket if it works.”

+

It’s gone eight before Harry spots John’s dear face in the crowd. He raises his full glass to the man before excusing himself from the conversation with his counterpart on  _ Erebus _ , another Sinclair; this one’s a Robert. Harry crosses the tent to clasp hands with him, clapping a hand on his shoulder for good measure. “You’re looking well, John,” he says. 

“I feel it,” John smiles. “More so now that I have your company again.”

“Suppose a steward’s duties are easily mastered by a sprightly young man of six-and-twenty,” Harry teases, wrinkling his nose at the stray pieces of snow he can see glistening in John’s grey strands. His fingers itch to pull the little flakes free and get John sorted, but especially given John’s reputation, he ought to show some restraint - it’s for both their sakes, in the end.

“That joke’s not grown old half as quickly as I have, I tell you,” John chuckles, perhaps slightly embarrassed. “Are you well, my dear?”

“The men are all up the pole,” Harry confides, “I’ll have a grand old time trying to get them to work tomorrow. Ought to be glad there’s not much to be done.”

John’s hand guides him gently to an empty spot near the back canvas of the tent, where they’ve a modicum of privacy more than they did smack dab in the center. “I have it on good authority that Sir John has some entertainment planned.”

“Not for nothing John, but _ Sir _ John’s idea of a good time seems to be a two-hour sermon early on a Sunday and no communion wine to wash it down.”

John laughs. It is a nice, full-bellied sound that never fails to delight Harry, settling in his chest like a little candle. “How good then, that he has left the planning of tonight’s festivities to his lieutenants, eh?”

“That does excite the imagination more,” Harry concedes.

“As for our remaining time at Beechey,” John continues. “There’ll be friendly competitions. Football and the like.” 

“Bully for that,” Harry grins. “We’ll leave  _ Erebus _ in tears, I say!” 

“You forget, dear Harry, how much energy remains in this sprightly steward of six-and-twenty.”

+

Sir John rises to give his sermon, and it is truly a Christmas miracle that he keeps it to half an hour. 

It is not so very long afterwards that two finely dressed young ladies are accompanied into the tent, one on the arm of Lt. Hodgson, the other led by Lt. Le Vesconte. When it is revealed that they are not some apparition, only Commander Fitzjames and Lieutenant Gore, freshly shaved, powdered and rouged, the men’s good cheer can hardly be improved upon. 

There’s dancing, some of the men make their own way with each other on the dancefloor, and songs are broken out and crowed loudly, but most watch and enjoy the evening for what it is.

“Let us hope, my dear,” John whispers to Harry as a slightly less miserable Captain Crozier waltzes with  _ Miss  _ Gore, “that next year will keep us just as well.”

Behind their backs Harry reaches to twine his pinky around John’s wrist, squeezes the tender bit of flesh thus exposed fondly. 

“Yes, John, let’s hope.”


	9. MacDonald

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blown out can: do not eat

**Chapter Nine - MacDonald**

_ 4th January 1846 - Anchored near Beechey Island _

Evans comes barreling into sick bay shortly before ten, running in time with the bells. His eyes are wide and his face is set into a mournful expression; his distress is apparent even though he pants heavily enough to render his speech nearly unintelligible. “Have you heard the news, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid I cannot confirm that until you have told me the news, Mister Evans,” smiles Alexander, setting down his papers. 

“Another death over on  _ Erebus _ ,” Evans tells him, still short of breath. “They’ve requested Doctor Peddie.”

That is news worth running for, certainly. They’d rudely entered the new year with John Torrington’s death; when he’d collapsed during the festivities, no man had thought he would wake nevermore. A case of exhaustion, it was ruled initially. No trace of active consumption in the lungs - old scar tissue, yes, but beneath his clothes the boy was scarcely more than a skeleton.  _ If he will not eat what was amply provided for him, how can we save him? Can we be blamed?  _ Sir John had muttered, eyes turned to the heavens in open supplication. Now that another man has joined him in death, Alexander is not so certain of their being right. Sheltered in a harbor as they are, no man of the crew must work so much as to drop dead from it.

“Have you seen Doctor Peddie today?” Alexander asks mildly. “I cannot say so myself.”

Though, frankly, late last night he’d left Peddie while the man had the unpalatable liver of their  _ ursus maritimus _ under his lens, trying to figure out why it had made several of the men sick. New Year’s has since proven clandestine excesses of spirits had little to do with these cases of upset stomachs that have been stealing into sick bay for months.

It is very likely that Peddie retired to bed minutes before Alexander awoke; his obsessiveness has carried him through many a sleepless night before. “Was urgent, they said,” Evans frets. “Suppose I’ll go look for him.”

“Don’t trouble yourself.” Alexander rises. “I’ll walk over to  _ Erebus _ . Though if in my absence someone on  _ Terror _ should fall gravely ill, you had better go looking for Doctor Peddie as though it were your own life in question.” 

+

“Just the right weather for a walk, isn’t it, Doctor?” Irving asks as he falls into step with him, carrying several rolls of paper Alexander has to assume are intended by Captain Crozier to reach Sir John. To what effect, he is not yet certain. All he has heard of their command meetings is that Crozier’s entreaties have been futile, though he cannot guess at the shape of them. He’s not been invited to attend recently. With two deaths in such quick succession, that is bound to change as well. 

In the weeks of their winter, saving the festivities and games on land, the Captain has retreated more and more into his cabin - walled himself in, so to speak - with Jopson standing guard like a particularly dedicated mongoose. “Magnetic studies,” Jopson had claimed with a scrunch of his nose when Alexander had the audacity to demand why he was being so coldly rebuffed. “A fellow of the Royal Magnetic Society, Captain Crozier is.” 

One need not be a learned man to note that these studies are best done on the ice rather than a dark, lonely cabin, but Alexander had no urgent report to make to Crozier anyway, so at the time he allowed Jopson to keep him out. 

Lieutenant Little had only scowled more deeply than usual when Alexander inquired why he’d increasingly been the one to receive the surgeons’ reports. “Captain Crozier is not beholden to inform me of his reasoning, Doctor,” he’d said.

“At any rate, I’m glad for the sun’s return,” Alexander agrees swiftly upon noticing an expectant expression on Irving’s face. Those sparse few minutes of sunlight will stretch more with each day, no doubt, until they grow tired of it once more and long for night to encase them in darkness. He wonders how often they’ll have to repeat that cycle until they emerge victorious into the Pacific. 

+

Tom Hartnell is standing over his brother’s body, squeezing his Welsh Wig tightly in his hands, when Alexander arrives in  _ Erebus _ ’ sick bay. The dour Doctor Stanley is not with him; instead Alexander can hear the voice of his assistant, hushed but loquacious as ever. 

“Yes, I realize this is unpleasant to hear, Mister Hartnell, and I am sorry, but Sir John has deemed it necessary, and so we must--”

“But what’ve you got to cut him open  _ for _ , Doctor?”

“Well -- I’m not a doctor, only a mister, like you, but it helps to look inside a man to figure out if he is...well, if your brother is a sign of things to come.”

“You can tell that by looking inside of him?” Tom Hartnell sounds incredulous. Afraid too, maybe. “Just like that?”

“Sometimes, yes,” Goodsir confirms. “If it’s consumption, we might see that in the lungs.”

A more cynical man might note privately that they’ve no cure for that particular ailment at their disposal, so if it should befall more of the men it is likely they’d be swept away the same as poor John Hartnell. They might isolate some, aye, but that’s a hard foe to contend with, especially on a ship where fresh air is almost a luxury. Not once they reach the Pacific, maybe - but you can’t stand on deck very long in these parts.

“Do what you must, then,” Tom Hartnell whispers, pushing back a lock from his brother’s wan forehead. 

“Ah, Doctor MacDonald.” Stanley comes down the gangway, strolling as though he hasn’t got a care in the world. “Have you come with Doctor Peddie?”

“You’ll have to excuse his absence, Doctor Stanley. He’s needed on  _ Terror _ , at present.”

“Anything interesting?”

“A few splinters, some amputations of toes or fingers,” Alexander says. “We’ve had nothing like this.”

“How fortunate for  _ Terror _ ,” Stanley drawls before turning to Goodsir. “Why have you not started, yet?”

“Oh, I--” Goodsir gestures to Tom Hartnell, whose hand is still cupping his brother’s cold cheek. His brow is thoughtful and his commonly smiling mouth set in a grim line. “He’s not said his goodbyes just yet.”

“Well, we’ve not got all day,” Stanley huffs. “Great many other things to do.”

He fixes Tom Hartnell with a cold stare. Almost as if some puppeteer moves him, Hartnell reluctantly steps back from where his brother rests. Here is a man who does not want to leave his loved one in their hands, and can they blame him? “I’ll leave you to your work, Doctors. But--”

“What is it, Mister Hartnell?” Stanley sighs impatiently, inspecting the instruments at their perusal. 

“He’ll be -- he’ll be buried proper, won’t he?”

“Obviously.”

“Your brother will be at peace,” Goodsir tells him with a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he steers past the curtain that separates sick bay from where the men sleep. “I promise you, with a clean shirt on him you’ll not even see the stitches.”

“I’ll go see about getting a shirt then,” Hartnell exhales, at last sounding somewhat relieved. “Thank you, Doctor Goodsir.”

He’s gone before Stanley can correct him, though he’d already opened his mouth to do just that. 

“You know the men do not understand the distinction, Stephen,” Alexander says, in an attempt to avert an éclat so early in the day. 

Doctor Stanley’s face turns impassive. “Get on with it, Mister Goodsir.”

Alexander has not had much occasion for conversation with _ Erebus’  _ assistant surgeon, even in the months that they’ve been frozen in at Beechey; during those sparse encounters, however, he’s found him to be a man wholly dedicated to his studies - so much so that it has earned him Peddie’s reluctant admiration, even if John cannot muster the same enthusiasm for molluscs as he does for human cells or little animalcules. He’d sent some specimens over for Goodsir by way of a ship’s boy, with his compliments - for John Smart Peddie, that constitutes a fully-formed friendship. Now that Alexander has the opportunity to watch him work, he is gratified to note that this, too, Goodsir does with dedication. His cuts are placed confidently, and he holds John Hartnell’s lungs in his hands before Alexander has finished cataloguing the rest of the organs. 

Holding it up to the light, Goodsir squints. His nose twitches as his glasses begin to slip in the sweat dripping down his brow. 

“I cannot say there is anything consumptive about these lungs,” he decides, offering them to Stanley first, who declines, and Alexander next, who takes them in his hands. 

“Nor can I,” Alexander concurs, “though perhaps - hand me that, please, Mister Goodsir, I’d like to inspect the  _ carina trachealis _ .”

They turn up nothing, which Alexander rather suspected - not even in the arteries - but he enjoys being thorough. 

“Extrapulmonal manifestation excluding the lungs themselves is very rare,” Stanley points out. 

“His teeth are in a passable state.” Goodsir continues his work. “He hasn’t any undue bruises, nor are his gums unhealthy in any way. I think we may safely strike scurvy off the differential.”

All in all, those two are their most pressing concerns. Now that they are out of the question, Stanley steps away from the table, making his excuses by claiming an invitation to take breakfast with Sir John. 

“What were his symptoms prior to everything?” Alexander asks. 

“He started vomiting shortly after midnight on the second and complained of cramping in his stomach,” Goodsir explains. Such a presentation is not uncommon. Issues of the digestive tract are second only to minor scrapes or effects of the cold on arctic voyages. “His brother said he’d been feeling tired for some while and that he’d complained of blurred vision. They’d both put it down to snow blindness - a mild case, since they’d been at work with the tents for our celebrations. He had no fever to speak of. In fact, his temperature was quite normal. Then the muscles of his face stopped working, and as whatever took him spread he could no longer get enough air.”

Goodsir carefully packs John Hartnell’s organs back inside, arranging them in as proper a presentation as one might expect in an anatomy atlas. 

“His brother could not tell me if he’d ever had diphtheria,” Goodsir continues, “and though this would have been quite an unusual presentation, I was rather at a loss as to what else I could do for the poor man.” 

“You performed a tracheotomy?” Alexander touches the deceased’s throat.  _ Rigor mortis _ has come and gone; the flesh yields easily beneath his hand. It’s a fine cut.

“It did not do much for him, I’m afraid,” Goodsir sighs. “I could ventilate him for a while, and that eased the worst of the dyspnea, but the paralysis only spread. It was not an obstruction of the airways - indeed, now we have seen once and for all that there was nothing to impede airflow.” 

“Was he in much pain?”

“By the time Doctor Stanley authorized the use of laudanum he could no longer swallow,” Goodsir says. “We did what we could. I should say, he was still in charge of whatever mental faculties he possessed.”

“No loss of consciousness?”

“No, quite clear-headed. He was very afraid, by the end - his brother soothed him through it, some. Whatever this is,” Goodsir says, adjusting his glasses before he begins a neat row of stitches along the cuts he made earlier, “I don’t suppose you think it will affect more of them?”

“I hope not,” Alexander says, “if it will bedevil us so.”

Goodsir lets out a disappointed noise. 

“I’ll confer with Doctor Peddie,” he promises. “Don’t let's be cowed by this just yet, aye, Mister Goodsir?”

+

“Goodness, Alexander,” Peddie sighs, rubbing his eyes as he looks up from his lense for what might be the first time in hours. “I’m sure I don’t know, but it cannot be consumption, that is for certain.”

“I had thought--” Alexander frowns. “Do you suppose we ought to ask  _ Erebus _ to check her victuals?”

Now he perks up. “You think it a case of botulism, perhaps?”

“I had considered it. I’ve not seen cases of it in grown men, only infants, but it struck me as rather similar.”

“Well it is often good to follow our initial instincts where clinical presentation is concerned,” Peddie decides, “though I cannot pretend it would have been my first differential.” He stands and goes to clean his hands, the rag always over his shoulder stained with a myriad different tones of flesh and blood by now. “I will include the recommendation in my letter to Stanley.”

“You might simply answer the man’s invitation yourself next time.”

“Yes, but I was asleep.” Peddie shakes his head. “And besides, Alex, you might well be onto something here.”

+

Lieutenant Hodgson ducks into sick bay a week later. “I’m to tell you that another man has fallen ill on  _ Erebus _ ,” he says. It is odd to see such solemnity on a face habitually cheerful to the point of comedy. “One of the quartermasters has also assured me that there is nothing wrong with the sausage that he can find.”

“What a pity,” Alexander sighs, heartfelt. 

“If it means we may continue to have the sausage, it is not so great a pity, is it?”

“Do you know if the man presented--” 

Hodgson raises a haughty brow. “Though I pride myself on possessing talents manifold, the medical field is and shall remain a mystery to me, I think.”

“Yes, of course,” Alexander agrees, easily. “I’ll inform Doctor Peddie. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

+

He stands next to Peddie during the service on deck. Only a skeleton shift remains on  _ Terror _ , which Lieutenant Little had volunteered for with unusual readiness. Alexander suspects a healthy amount of respect for Sir John’s sermons might have moved him to do so. This current one is nearing the hour mark now, and in this cold many of the men have begun to stamp their feet, quietly as they can, to force some warmth where it is direly needed. Sir John seems not to intend stopping soon.

“I do so hate frostbite,” Peddie sighs, having clearly observed the same phenomenon as Alexander. “Amputations are much too grisly for my tastes. Someone ought to figure out a way to stop the patient from screaming.”

“We’ll be quick about it,” Alexander returns. 

“I hear,” Peddie whispers, quieter still, “that poor Mister Torrington presented rather similarly to the much-mourned Hartnell brother - though he had underlying issues in his lungs. This third fellow is expected to pull through; his symptoms are much milder.”

“But the victuals--”

“I’d not consider your hypothesis falsified yet,” Peddie says with some urgency. Behind them, someone clears their throat, a sharp reprimand: daring shown by some particularly devout AB, no doubt. 

Peddie gives Alexander a rather severe look and throws a contemptuous one over his shoulder for good measure. He’s an officer, aye, but faith makes men consider insubordination quickly, if it runs deep.

“--I ask now that Lieutenant Irving lead us in prayer, as our Lord Jesu taught us.”

_ Pater noster, qui es in caelis _ _  
_ _ Sanctificetur nomen tuum _

Irving’s clear voice is filled with fervor, and it carries well across the deck. Alexander forms the words silently with his tongue, allows them to fill him with metaphorical warmth even as he thinks he might lose a toe to the cold himself.  _  
_ _  
_ “Doctor Stanley has recommended the men’s diet be changed,” Peddie whispers. His lips hardly move, but he’d have done better to wait for the English iteration, Alexander thinks as once more, someone hisses behind them. 

_ Adveniat regnum tuum _ _  
_ _ Fiat voluntas tua, sciut in caelo, et in terra.  _

“Captain Crozier has sanctioned more hunting parties led by that formidable sergeant,” Peddie shares, undeterred. “Failing to procure sufficient fresh meat, we’ll shift the men to consume more vegetable soups and the like. From the cans.”

_ Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie _ _  
_ _ Et dimitte nobis debita nostra,  _ _  
_ _ Sciut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris _ _  
_ _ Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.  _   
  


“It is not a permanent fix, I should say.”

_ Sed libera nos a malo.  _

“But for now, that is the best we may do.”

+

“What may I do for you, Mister Wentzall?” Peddie asks with limited patience, after the AB has hovered near the curtain for some minutes now without verbally making his presence known. Most likely he is terrified of Doctor Peddie, who has by now built something of a reputation as a serious man whose time is not to be trifled with. 

Alexander smiles to himself, listening to the conversation from behind a curtain of his own, where he is busy palpating Mister Lawrence’s stomach. 

“Are you having any trouble breathing, Mister Lawrence?”

The AB’s face is twisted by pain, but through gritted teeth, he manages to deny it. “It’s my stomach what’s shot through, Doctor. Breathe just fine, I tell you.”

“And these colics,” Alexander continues, feeling a liver that is no more enlarged than one would expect in a man of thirty. “Do they occur in a significant pattern which you have noticed?”

“Only noticed that they’ve been getting stronger, if that’s your meaning. Been ignoring them as long as December, I have.”

“Heavens. Why’ve you not come earlier?”

It is almost March, now. Never mind that the crew is under the strictest of orders to come forward if anyone feels unwell, to not say a thing of it seems simply incredible. “Weren’t going to cause any trouble, Doctor,” Lawrence insists, hissing when Alexander presses just above his navel. “It were bearable - ‘til it weren’t.”

“And have you any other symptoms?” 

Once more, the man denies it. Then, after a second of very obvious deliberation, he recants. “Run hot, sometimes,” he confesses. “Only for a few minutes, but the sweat beads on my forehead real fast-like. Been grateful for the heat during my watches, I have.”

Alexander huffs a laugh. “I can imagine, Mister Lawrence.”

He covers the man’s stomach again and allows him to tuck everything back into place before making his recommendation. It is always rather dissatisfying, not being able to offer something which addresses the root cause, but the man seems grateful for the tonic, and it has proven most effective in settling the stomach aches several of  _ Terror’s _ men have been presenting with. 

When he draws the curtain back, Peddie is doing much the same to William Wentzall as Alexander just did to Mister Lawrence. They share a look. It appears Mister Wentzall is now the fifth in a row of similar cases. 

+

Captain Crozier is already nursing a drink and staring resolutely into the darkness from the cabin window when Jopson admits Alexander to the wardroom. By the window seat, Lieutenant Little annotates what looks to be a memoir.

“Doctor Peddie is busy, I presume?”

“Aye,” Alexander says, and this time he does not lie. “Mister Farr has the cold in his toes - it requires his steady hand.”

“Aren’t you needed below, then?”

“Not pressingly,” Alexander tries to sound confident. “Mister Armitage has offered to assist in my stead. I thought it important to make my report.”

“You are at leave to do so, Doctor.” Crozier’s voice is weary when he speaks, as though it costs him a great deal to converse at all. Lieutenant Little pauses his reading, looking to Alexander with a heavy gaze. 

“We’ve had two more men complain of colic, just today.”

Crozier squints. 

“I believe it may be related to our foodstuff,” continues Alexander. 

“It is quite well-known that the food on such voyages does not make for fine dining,” Lieutenant Little huffs. 

“Aye, but even so, it should humble the men, not kill them,” Alexander retorts. “The stoker on  _ Erebus-- _ ”

“Doctor Stanley ruled that as pneumonia, I believe.”

“His lungs were weak, true enough, but the rictus that ended him is not consistent with consumption.”

Crozier blinks at him twice. “Jopson, pour the good man a glass. I’m off to bed.”

Lieutenant Little looks to be on the brink of saying something more, but then he only bids the captain a good night and frowns at his lecture for a long moment. After Alexander has accepted the offered refreshment - and it is a good drop, to be sure - Little sends Jopson on his way to help Crozier. 

“I will ask Lieutenant Irving to investigate our stores,” Lieutenant Little says into the silence created by his taciturn nature. “In the morning.”

“Very well,” Alexander agrees, emptying his glass.


	10. Tozer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Des Voeux's foot isn't the only thing that's gone horny on this expedition, folks.

**Chapter Ten - Tozer**

_ Late March, 1846 - Beechey Island _

For the fifth time in a fortnight Sol wakes up with a right hand that aches like a right bitch. Must have slept on it wrong, he tries to tell himself, but he falls asleep on his back in the evenings and doesn’t spend much time tossing and turning about; with how narrow they have it down here, the men would be sure to point it out to him. Call him fussy, or the like. Tease him about vivid dreams or something, hell, he’s sure they’d come up with many a jibe. 

They haven’t said anything. Still, doesn’t his wrist hurt something awful?

Nothing’s outwardly wrong; the skin looks alright - a little red perhaps, but that’s the cold for you. 

He can shoot fine with his left, that’s no trouble. Sol can do his job, could kill another one of them bears quick as he likes if they come upon one. It’s good practice, that - hunting keeps the marines in shape and instills some respect into the men who’ve already run out of the excitement that they brought along with them from Greenhithe. Again, that’s the cold for you. It inspires the mind to keep itself warm with other thoughts - thoughts that don’t involve standing round in the cold for four hours not knowing if you’ll have all your toes the next day. Some men think of the girls they left in England; others think of keeping their blood up with mutiny, gain the wardroom to keep warm by the fires stoked there. You have all sorts on a ship.

It’s Sol’s job to step up when they do more than think of it, but he prefers not to let them believe they might be able to get away with it in the first place. 

+

During their downtime, the marines set up targets out on the ice. It’s good practice, he expects they’ll be doing more hunting yet. And then early one April morning he hears someone offer the men a crack at it, like they’re at a bloody faire. “Does the men good,” Sergeant Bryant claims when Sol asks if he’s lost his marbles. His tone is seldom humble, but now it is boastful, dripping with pride that embarrasses Sol. “Sir John likes a bit of friendly competition amongst the men. Good for morale.”

Bryant’s ranking. Annoying wanker though he may be, he got his stripes earlier, and that means Sol shuts up and nods, even if he thinks the whole thing is a dumb idea. Giving guns to the crew is going to cause some real problems months or years from now, when the right kind of wrong men know who’s a good shot and who’s gotten practice in.

“Promised a guinea to the best shot,” Heather whistles his approval as they trudge down from  _ Terror  _ together, gait heavy in their slops. “Generous when he can, our commander, isn’t he?”

“Don’t suppose we’re included in that?”

“Reckon he’ll measure the best shot as the first man to out-shoot you.”

“Good way to keep a purse fat, that,” Sol snorts. 

“Right enough,” Heather agrees, nodding towards the targets they’ve set up. “There goes Tommy, now.”

“Seen him shoot before?”

“Can’t say I have, no,” Heather grins, clearly curious. They draw near enough for Heather to greet him with the familiar “All right, Tommy” the marines have taken to. 

“Morning, gents,” Armitage returns, looking cheerful as he readies to shoot. 

“Done this before, have you?” Sol cannot help but ask. The look he receives for that comment is a challenge to decipher. “Could hurt yourself, if you don’t take care,” Sol warns, though he’s sure he doesn’t know why he’d care.

Armitage’s mouth twitches at the right corner. “Kind of you to be so concerned, Sergeant.”

The steward takes his shot with astonishing ease. It’s nothing to write home about, Sol considers. He wouldn’t, if he’d shot like that, but it’s a fair spot better than he’s seen from the whole sorry lot of seaman who’ve already had their turns. Not completely in the brown, smack dab in the white of the target. Heather seems to agree; he goes to ruffle Armitage’s hair, upsetting his cap and embarrassing him in the process. 

There’s some cajoling soon afterwards, for Sol to show them how it’s done. 

“Wrist is all stiff,” Sol grumbles, but accepts the gun nonetheless. 

“Stop pulling yourself off a dozen times a day, then,” Heather suggests. 

“Look who’s talking, Private.” Sol kicks at him, careful not to follow through too harshly. “Think I can’t hear you grope yourself at night?”

“Inspire you, does it, Sol?” 

“Aye, to give you double-watch duty, maybe.”

He positions himself, weighing his options - can’t embarrass himself now, and he doesn’t trust his right hand to be steady, what with it aching as it does. Gonna have to use the left, make a spectacle of it. Some grand show of outshooting them even with his weak hand. 

It has that effect, it does, when he twirls the gun around, careful not to wince as he does it. Makes him look brazen, confident. Might be the cold that has him wincing - but why is his left hand all sunshine, then? No bloody sense in it.

He hits the target where he’s supposed to, so he tells himself not to worry overly much. 

+

It’s a relief to see Lieutenant Little come on deck to share the watch and not Hodgson, who has rightly talked his ear off every time they stood together now. There’s a man deep in his thoughts, Lieutenant Little. Sol won’t disturb him, he decides - doesn’t _ need _ the conversation, not if Little is keen for some quietude - but he nudges the lieutenant’s fine blue coat with the tobacco pouch. He knows enough of Little now to remember the lieutenant brings his pipe with him when he comes up. And a fine pipe it is.

“Much obliged.” Little accepts the packed goods, rolling some tobacco between two fingers, packing it quick as he can before pulling his glove on again. He whistles for one of the boys - long due below at this hour - who comes running from the spot on deck where he’s been chatting with one of the ABs on watch. For a moment Sol thinks Evans will sprout a tail and start wagging it like their Neptune. Startling, that is, seeing so much eagerness compressed into one scarf-wrapped bundle of a boy.

“Light it up for us, would you?” Little produces a match. “See you haven’t shaved today.”

And tomorrow’s inspection day, right enough. “Not enough stubble on the pup.” Sol spits over the gunwale. The taste of dinner has been lingering in his mouth, and he doesn’t want it to interfere with his smoke.

“Eh,” Little shrugs. “Let him try.”

Turns out Evans is too cowed to take it to his cheek. He strikes it against the side of Little’s pipe instead and works it steadily until the air is filled with the pleasing aroma of a good bit of baccy. “First one’s yours for that, I reckon,” Sol says. 

Little doesn’t comment, which the boy must take for permission. Evans hands it back over swiftly, staring up at the lieutenant like he’s some Goddamned hero for letting him have a smoke. “Nothing to be doing, Evans?”

“Some,” Evans nods, teeth chattering in the cold. “Mister Peglar said I’m to help with the worming and parceling and serving and such, now that we might put the sails up again.”

“Then you had best go below and help him.”

“Pardon me, Sir,” Evans says, grinning, “but you’ve not given me a knot to practice.” 

Little raises his brows, scowling a bit. “Have Mister Peglar show you one when you’re done. I’ll inspect it tomorrow.”

“Aye, Sir.” Evans grins wider still, knuckling his temple before scampering off into the endless night. 

“Good kid, he is,” Sol comments, packing his tobacco away so he can safely store it on the inside of his coat. Got a pocket ready-made for it, he has. 

“Quick,” Little adds, though he doesn’t stop frowning. After he passes his pipe to Sol, they stand together in uninterrupted silence. Nothing happens during the watch except that Little’s eyes narrow, appearing somewhat amused, when Sol burns a hole into his glove while attempting to light a second one. The lieutenant doesn’t make a comment, though, looking away and sparing him further embarrassment, even. Awfully decent of him. Suits Sol just fine, that does. 

+

Armitage is leaving sick bay just as Sol arrives. He carries a basket of laundry that threatens to topple him, small as he is. The steward pauses, brow furrowed. “Something the matter, Sergeant?”

The amount of concern on his face is, frankly, concerning to Sol. Shouldn’t be looking at him like that, Mister Armitage. Gives a man ideas he’s better off without, that look. 

“Aye, Mister Armitage, want to kiss it better?” he leers, gesturing to the fall of his trousers, more in an attempt to run the steward off than anything else. Wouldn’t go about it like that, if he were of a mind to proposition. He has better moves than that if he’s sniffing about for some upright refreshment. No need to be crude.

The steward startles. He ducks his head low, hurrying away without another glance to spare. In the process, he almost loses a bit of linen, but it catches on his boot and Armitage kicks it right back up into his hand. Dexterous. 

Sol is glad to find it’s Doctor MacDonald on duty and not the other one, when he finally manages to shake his head free of Armitage enough to enter sick bay. Men have their qualms with MacDonald, true enough, but there aren’t half so many complaints about him as  _ Terror’s _ chief surgeon. That Doctor Peddie’s a strange fellow. ‘ _ Eccentric’ is the word for it _ , Billy said once.  _ Got a whole collection of organs, Doctor Peddie does. _

It has led to a persistent rumor that if you lose a toe to frostbite, Doctor Peddie will add it to his collection.  _ Worse things he could take, eh? Better keep your stones nice and toasty, Wilkes,  _ Sol had grinned when the private brought it up. Billy had made as if to grab for them, seated next to Wilkes as he was. 

“Good evening, Sergeant.” Doctor MacDonald looks up at the sound of footfall. He puts whatever he was sribbling into aside. Soon Sol feels the whole weight of his gaze settle on him.

“Evenin’,” Sol nods, removing his hat and trying to avoid dripping melted snow on the floor overly much. Can’t help tracking in some, but there’s no need to add to it. 

“What ails you?”

“Wondering if you could have a look at my hand,” he explains. 

MacDonald smiles. “I must say, Sergeant, that I am surprised to see you here.”

“Not the type to suffer in silence if it’s something that can be remedied,” Sol shrugs, having a seat as directed and tugging off his glove. Some of the skin’s inflamed, but that’s owing to the hole he burned. Exposes some of his palm to the cold, that does. Seeps in, gives one chilblains all over, real nasty. “Besides, Captain’s told us to come in. On pain of death, almost.”

“Only almost. That does look bothersome,” Doctor MacDonald concedes, turning Sol’s palm upwards for a better look. “I can give you a salve. That should ease some of the pain, but I expect you’ll not have much fun dressing anytime soon.”

“Right, thanks.” Sol nods. “And is there -- know why my wrist might be giving out?”

“Your wrist, Sergeant?” 

“Aye,” Sol says. “Whole thing started on my right. Went all stiff, and thought I slept on it wrong, but I’m starting to feel it in my left as well.”

“Is that so?”

“Can’t feel it when I scratch the back of my right hand, nor round the base of my thumb, here,” Sol explains, demonstrating. “Thought that were the cold, but my fingertips are fine, save for the, uh, obvious.”

“That is certainly interesting.”

“Have anything to help with that, do you reckon?”

“I’m afraid nothing comes to mind, Sergeant.” And MacDonald really sounds sorry, he does. “But I’ll look into it and confer with our chief surgeon.”

“Cheers, then.” Sol stands. 

“I’d urge you to be diligent about the salve,” MacDonald imparts some final advice. 

The curtain rustles. Armitage strides into the sick bay, depositing fresh linens before turning to MacDonald expectantly. He inclines his head when the doctor makes a small gesture of his hand Sol supposes is to suggest there’s nothing more to be done. 

“And see about mending your glove, perhaps,” MacDonald smiles. “As a prophylactic treatment.”

“Good night, Doctor.” Sol nods, ducking behind the curtain. He notes steps behind him, and soon enough, there’s a hand on his elbow, clad in a fine white glove of its own. 

“Could help you with that glove,” Armitage offers. Aye, but he’s tempting, Tommy is. Blue eyes like that—

It’s a bad idea. 

Early days, eh? They might be years on  _ Terror  _ yet. 

“See to your own work, Mister Armitage,” he counsels. “You’ll be better off for it.”

The poor lad looks awfully disappointed. Sol almost regrets being so harsh, but it’s for the best. Still - “Good of you to offer.”

Armitage meets his gaze directly, then. Those thrice-damned eyes. Force of them is unsettling, this close. 

“Well, if you change your mind, Sergeant, sure you know where to find me.”

He leaves it at that, squeezing past Sol in the narrow corridor. They’re pressed together for only the briefest of moments - blink and you’ll miss it - but God, it’s been a while now, hasn’t it? Sol remains rooted to the spot for a few deep breaths before he shakes his head clear of such notions. 


	11. Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You’ve got mail, Nedward.

**Chapter Eleven - Little**

_Early April, 1846, Beechey Island_

Mister Blanky has the air of an excited lad on Christmas morning about him when he comes sliding down the ropes. He rubs his hands together vigorously before he nods a greeting to Edward, who has been made to wait almost five minutes for his descent. “Nowt that I see,” Blanky reports. “Give it a couple of weeks more, she’ll open up right enough for you. As with a fine woman, so with the ice, I say.”

“And where do we go then?”

“Do I look like Sir John to you?” Blanky laughs, patting his belly. “My Esther’s told me I’d grown a paunch, but I’m not so old yet.”

“Your expertise ought not to be taken for granted.”

“We’ll go whichever way we can, Edward.” Blanky’s elbow makes friendly contact with Edward’s own. “Got a preference, do you?”

“By all means, if I had my pick we would go south. We would do well to try and stay close to the known rivers, in case--” he cuts himself off quickly, but too late all the same. Blanky has caught the scent - he’s biting, going in for the kill. 

“ _Foolish, dangerous, absurdly expensive,_ are missions such as ours _?”_

“Doctor King’s words are not the ones I would choose,” Edward sniffs. “I have found, however, that his theories are not without merit.”

“Controversial tastes, you have,” Blanky chuckles. 

“We have found that Cornwallis Land is only Cornwallis Island, after all. I fail to see why we should allow the maps we have brought to have the final word when we’ve already proven them inaccurate to some extent.”

“Aye,” Blanky agrees. He scratches at his nose and frowns at the bits of dried blood and fresh snow that come away when he does. 

“If we’re to have only three months of open water,” Edward continues, after he looks around for any layabouts with overly perked ears, “I should like us to assure we have the chance to _safely_ pass another winter in the ice if it comes to that.” No use in toying with the lives of over a hundred men. 

“Not crushed between the pack, aye. Good reckoning, that.” On the brink of saying more, Blanky is interrupted by the ship’s bells. “Don’t know about you, Lieutenant, but I could do with a cup of warmth,” the ice master suggests, face turning sly. “Fancy some yourself?”

Down below the table is already laid for dinner, numbering many more plates than Edward has grown accustomed to seeing. Irving and Hodgson stand by the window, their heads bent together in conversation, hushed but seemingly engaging for the both of them. Mister Hornby has roped Mister MacBean into a game of cards, with Robert Thomas observing and offering the occasional suggestion to both men in turns. All in all, the wardroom is rather more full than Edward has come to expect these past months.

“What, ho!” Blanky jumps to the side when Jopson strides past, leading a line of stewards and their food. “Smells like summat tasty what you’ve dished up for us there, Jopson.”

“You’ve Mister Diggle to thank for that, Sir,” Jopson says. 

“As good as it smells, then?”

“I wouldn’t know, Sir.”

“Not sampled it, what!” Blanky exclaims. “How do you suppose it worthy of the captain, then?”

Jopson’s mouth clamps shut. No doubt he’d been ready to make a firm protest, only to realize belatedly that Blanky is tweaking him as he does everyone else. 

“Don’t let him work you too hard, Jopson,” Blanky reminds him with a pointed finger, wagging it to and fro right around Jopson’s nose. “Find some time for yourself when you can. Lord knows Armitage does.”

“I’ll do my very best, Sir.”

It’s a gift, Mister Blanky’s personable manner. Edward doesn’t suppose the man ever suffers agonies over what he’s said or failed to say. Edward envies him for it, often, especially when he observes how he rises in the esteem of everyone he engages in conversation - officers and ABs alike. 

+

“Thomas says you’ve read Doctor King’s book,” Captain Crozier says into the half-dark room. Long after Edward thought him asleep in his chair, he finds instead that he is being watched rather carefully.

Mister Blanky has since begged off to sleep. Edward wonders when the ice master found the time to relay that particular piece of information, as the captain had spent most of dinner glowering at the peas as though they had threatened to do him great bodily harm. 

In an attempt to catch his eye, Edward had only succeeded in watching as Crozier cut the food into smaller and smaller pieces, pushing it around his plate but in truth eating very little of it. He supposes he cannot fault him for a spoiled appetite, but tonight’s food was almost a delicacy measured against some of the other dishes they’ve been presented with. 

“It was of interest to me.”

Crozier’s eyes focus after a second of blinking. He waves his hand, slowly. “Bring us that map, Jopson.” The paper rustles as it is spread out, giving way to Crozier’s shaking fingers. “There,” he proclaims. Edward leans forward to better see what he means. 

“King William Land, Sir?”

“Is it, Edward?”

Ah. “You think it may be an island?”

Crozier levels him with a gaze that Edward cannot quite comprehend. For the longest time he says nothing. “I tried to tell James we ought to sail further south, when we were last in these parts,” he recounts at length. “Ross, that is. James Ross. A James you can reason with. But we were not - neither of us - equipped with the power to change our commander’s mind. Instead we were frozen in on the Gulf of Boothia.”

“I’ve read his uncle’s memoir, Sir.”

“And what have you learned from that, I wonder?” Crozier snorts, drinking deeply before setting his glass down with what seems to Edward to be excessive force. In the dark his eyes look more despairing than usual. “If King William Land is in fact King William Island, we could circumvent it, winter on its southern banks, and sail west with the spring. Right along the coast, here. We might find our way to an inlet familiar to Sir John.”

Edward nods. 

“I hear that plan was favourable to you.”

“On account of the proximity to the mainland, Sir,” Edward explains. “I had not yet thought on any inlets as possible safe havens.”

Crozier takes a deep, laborious breath. “There might come a day we will have to walk out on the ice. I hope it need not come to that, but I _fear_ it because it is a captain’s duty to consider all possible outcomes.”

“Abandon the ships?” Edward furrows his brow. Behind him, he hears a sharp intake of breath, reminding him that Jopson is still with them, blending into the wall but keeping his ears open. “We’re provisioned for five years, with rationing. Seven, if needs must.”

“Lieutenant Irving made his report to me today,” Crozier frowns. “You were right to order it. A number of our canned goods have gone off. Mister Diggle cannot think as to why, but he’s much concerned. Tomorrow he intends to confer with Mister Wall over on _Erebus_.”

“Ah.”

“So you see, Edward, we might have to rely more on the Arctic’s _plentiful_ game than we initially thought.” There will be game on the mainland, no doubt more than they have found here. Edward is quiet; no question has been posed, after all. Crozier motions with his cup and Jopson materializes, topping him up with a steady hand. He is then gone from sight again, like he was never there in the first place. 

“Another winter will not be our end,” Crozier continues. “Not if we are sheltered from the pack, as Mister Blanky likes to remind everyone.”

“As long as she can still sail with the thaw,” Edward realizes, understanding. Standing in _Terror_ ’s cabin, it seems impossible that she should not withstand the ice; for all that men boast of unsinkable ships, _Terror_ would convince any skeptics of that fact. 

“The ice isn’t kind to _Terror_ , or any like her,” Crozier sighs. “Pushes them up pressure ridges, and because it is necessary that our ships do not easily bend, splinters them instead and leaves them to sink in the spring. I can’t tell you how many wrecks the admiralty has left in these territories.”

Edward traces the indefinite shape of King William Land with his index finger. “We sail from one shelter to another, then.”

He does not dislike this strategy; it feels safe, well-considered. There is a problem with the plan, all the same. It is glaringly obvious, impossible to ignore. The captain’s face darkens. “Only if Sir John gives the order, Edward.” 

+

“Another death, over on _Erebus_ ,” Irving reports, the next day, striding into the wardroom. “One of the marines.”

“Not Sergeant Bryant, surely?” Edward pauses his reading to ask. 

“One of the privates, I’m told.” Not that that is any better, right. Irving’s eyes are rather judgemental.

“What happened, do you know?”

“Doctor Stanley took it for consumption.” Irving frowns, wrinkling his nose. “I suppose we can count our blessings that we culled some of the men and sent them back, though I wonder at their state now.”

“Hm.”

“They suspect that the scurvy’s begun to weaken the men’s bodies and so has made it easier for the consumption to take them.” That makes as much sense to Edward as anything else a doctor has ever told him. “Doctor Peddie has gone over to _Erebus_ at Sir John’s request.”

Irving removes his gloves, finding a seat opposite Edward. “We’ll know more upon his return.”

“Will you be having some tea, Sir?” Jopson asks when he comes into the cabin. If he is surprised to find John returned from his little trip across the ice already, he gives no indication of it. 

His own presence in the great cabin is something Jopson must have long grown accustomed to. Edward passes more nights here than he does in his berth, scowling at the maps as though they will give up some hitherto hidden knowledge if he only perseveres. 

He’s made his way through one self-aggrandizing memoir after the other and has elected to put those aside for now. 

“Oh, no, I can’t be staying long,” says Irving, rubbing his hands together. “It’s Sunday, Jopson.”

Almost time for service. Right.

“Very good, Sir,” Jopson says, inclining his head, “and will Lieutenant Little be on his way with you?”

Edward chuckles, quickly turning it into a cough when Irving’s eyes snap to him, plainly irritated. “Oh, no.” He shakes his head, trying to keep his glee contained. Ordinarily, the prospect of standing in the cold for four hours would not please him thus. “I’ve the watch, I’m afraid.”

“Next week, then.” Irving stands, putting a firm hand to his shoulder. “Next week.” 

Edward leaves that uncommented. He’s not yet thought of an excuse for next week.

“Tea, Sir?”

“Thank you, Jopson.”

+

“What is it, Mister Wentzall?” Edward asks with some irritation after the man has alternated between staring at him and the deck a dozen times or more in half as many minutes. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant Little, Sir, but I’ve heard talk that some of the cans have gone off.”

News travels on a ship, that is to be expected. Edward turns to face the sailor, knowing that he is sure to dislike what he sees in his eyes. Worry: as dangerous as any disease of the body, out here, and twice as fast to spread. “Do you suppose I care for rumours, Mister Wentzall?”

“No, Sir!” The seaman shakes his head, decidedly. “Only my brother - he worked in a factory what produced cans like the ones we’re eating.”

Edward raises a brow but doesn’t interrupt him. There may be a point here.

“Said when they was in a hurry sometimes the cans wouldn’t be closed, proper-like, with the lead or what’s that glue they use? _Soldiering,_ or something.”

“Ah.” A problem with the solder. _Yes_ , Edward supposes, _that’d do it._

“--and that it were easy to check if they were properly closed by tappin’ on the lids and such. They’ll spoil like fresh food if they aren’t. Air gets in, bad air.”

“You have that on good authority, it seems,” Edward comments. Mister Wentzall looks rather nervous and queasy to boot. Edward clamps down on a sigh. “Thank you, Mister Wentzall, that will be all, I think.”

“Sir.” 

“You’ll keep your knowledge to yourself. Tomorrow you will find Lieutenant Irving. You’ll tell him that I’ve sent you and relay to him alone what you have told me just now.”

“Yes, Sir,” he agrees, touching two fingers to his cap. 

“Good,” Edward says. “Back to your duties or your leisure, whichever it is.”

+

Edward cannot sleep, so by habit he finds his way to the wardroom and spreads the maps out on the table. Their position is marked neatly by Irving’s hand, checked whenever he can. It was last updated this noon, but it has remained mostly unchanged these past months.

“Pardon me, Sir.” Jopson’s soft voice, tired-sounding, draws him from his thoughts. “They’re all abed by now, usually.” He has a basket of the captain’s laundry on his hip and a line in his hand. 

“Are you suggesting I retire?” Edward wonders, stretching his limbs. He is tired, God! He is tired to his bones, but he knows already that his mind will know no peace even should he lay his head on the softest pillow in the Arctic. 

“Wouldn’t be so bold as that, Sir.” Jopson shakes his head, tilting it to the side. There is a curious look to his eyes. “Do you mind--”

“No, please.” Edward offers use of the cabin, freely. “Don’t let me keep you.”

“Thank you kindly,” Jopson says, clothespin between his teeth, before he sets about hanging the washing line clear across the cabin. That is how the captain always has dry clothes. How often has Edward grumbled about damp linens? It is no fault of Genge’s, not on a ship in the arctic, but of course clever Jopson would think to use one of the only heated rooms in the ship, and without inconveniencing anyone, too!

“Let me help you with that.” Edward stands when he sees the steward struggle to reach one of the hooks in the wall. He wins a smile for his efforts. No doubt a polite but firm refusal is already on the tip of Jopson’s tongue, but tonight he will insist. 

“Thank you, Sir.”

“No trouble at all,” says Edward, settling back down to read as Jopson goes about his work. He has not the head for it, regrettably. His eyes stray as easily as his mind, led to the lines of Jopson’s back by the movements of his waistcoat. As he reaches to pin the linens his shirt comes untucked. For a brief moment Edward catches a glimpse of milky-white skin, perfectly unblemished and more inviting than anything has the right to be. He looks away and swears he will keep his eyes glued to the page until the letters begin to swim for being burned into his head. 

His resolve does not last long; it is as though that small sliver of skin is the pole and Edward’s eyes a needle seeking true north. 

That won’t do, he thinks, but - confound it! - he cannot make himself look away for long. 

Edward is only a man. He ought not to be cross with himself for running somewhat hot-blooded when presented with what would no doubt be a most delicious treat, but Mister Jopson does not deserve to be so debased in his mind. He has done nothing to invite Edward’s attraction, after all, and has maintained a very professional decorum these past months. A dedicated man, one who excels in his job, and no doubt kind of heart, too, but certainly not familiar, much less courting such attention! 

“I’m sorry to disturb your reading, Sir,” Jopson says after a while. There’s little to interrupt, truthfully, but Edward can reasonably understand that his current attitude lends itself to suspect there might be. 

“What is it, Mister Jopson?”

He has straightened his shirt, thank the heavens. Though truthfully, the sight of Jopson with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, and that damned lock that is always falling into his eyes, is still enough of a temptation that Edward dare not let his eyes linger on him too long. 

“I couldn't help overhearing your conversation with Captain Crozier some nights ago.”

“You’ve no cause to be concerned, I assure you.” Edward tries to smile, unsure how well he manages. He was not made for the stage, overlooked in favour of one of the hall boys whenever the time came for the Little offspring to present a play to their formidable father. Once or twice, Nellie had given him the option of playing a tree, and he hadn’t had the heart to refuse her. 

“Thank you, Sir, but I’m not,” Jopson says brightly. “Concerned, that is. I have been wondering, however.”

“Ask what you would, then.”

“The matter of King William Land - or, Island, I should say.” Jopson’s brow knits together. “What has you convinced that it is, in fact, an island? I suppose I cannot follow.”

“You’ve an interest in the maps, do you?”

“I like to know what I’m about, Sir,” Jopson claims, which might be taking offense or voicing agreement. Edward cannot tell. “Keep up with the ships and where we’re headed.”

Edward stands to browse the shelves of their library for Doctor King’s book. Once located, he hands it to the steward. “This gentleman here suggests the theory. Nothing so good as certainty, really, we won’t know until we’ve sailed those parts. Only it seems plausible.”

The steward frowns. 

“You might read it,” Edward suggests. Jopson’s hand covers the book. When he looks up at Edward, there is something odd about his face. 

“You _can_ read, can’t you, Jopson?” He didn’t see an x next to the steward’s name, only a very cramped script that spelled his initials. Edward doesn’t want to overstep, but if he cannot, then Edward will read it to him and satisfy the steward’s curiosity with better words than Edward could muster even at the risk of his neck, damn it all—

“Yeah.” Now he’s taken offense. 

“I did not mean to imply--”

“That’s all right, Sir.” Jopson re-affixes a smile to his lips. It does not reach his eyes. “Not many of my sort know how.”

Edward can’t say he’s known many illiterate stewards, they tend - ah, but that is not what Jopson means, of course. He’s caught him where it smarts. Deeper than some slight to his occupation, it seems: a cut to his background.

“Oh, no,” Edward says as realization dawns, mortifying him. “Really, Jopson, I do apologize, it was callous of me. Of course I did not—”

Jopson shakes his head. His eyes are firmly trained on the book as he turns a few pages. 

“He went overland, this Doctor King?”

“Yes,” Edward breathes, glad for the offered opportunity to repair having so thoroughly put his foot in it. “He did, with a George Back. They named a river for him.”

“I recall Captain Crozier mentioning that Mister Back commanded _Terror_ once,” Jopson recounts. 

“In ‘36, I believe, yes,” Edward recalls. “The ice pushed her forty feet clear up the pressure ridge, at one point. I could hardly believe my ears when they told me she’d floated after that. Made it home to England, even.”

“Goodness,” Jopson says softly. 

“She’s survived a great deal, our _Terror_ has,” Edward finishes, embarrassed for such outward enthusiasm. “Made of strong stuff.”

Jopson turns to the map, setting the book down at one corner with a fond pat on its spine.

“Here, then.” He points at the yellowed paper. “That is where you suppose our best chances at the passage lie.”

Edward approaches, keeping his hands carefully behind his back as he peers over Jopson’s shoulder. “I should say, this is only my private opinion, Mister Jopson. Hardly—”

“Captain Crozier seems to agree.” Jopson smiles at him over his shoulder. Edward is glad to see it in his eyes, again. “I’ve heard him praise you to Mister Blanky, you know.”

“Oh, well--”

“Really, you are too humble by half, Lieutenant.”

“I, ah, well,” Edward sighs, tries to distract himself from the sight before him. A smiling Jopson, one whose forearms look strong and mightily tanned when he compares it to what glimpses of his back he’d caught earlier - that presents some temptation, does it not? Nevertheless, Edward really should say something sensible. “I’ve had the good fortune to learn from very estimable captains. Our current one included, of course.” 

“I should have liked learning all that.”

“You’ve a knack for it, it seems to me,” Edward praises. “Perhaps you ought to apply at the Admiralty—”

“To take the exams, Sir?” Jopson’s brow rises, his face hardens. “What, little old me? They’d laugh me right out the door.”

“Nonsense,” Edward protests. 

“Sure they would, Sir.” Jopson’s face closes off. “They have.”

That is unfortunate. “My apologies.” Edward clears his throat. “Again, I have been thoughtless with you. I only meant to say I recognize some talent—”

“Oh, it’s quite all right, Sir,” Jopson insists, turning back to the map, away from Edward’s searching gaze. “Besides,” says he, looking back up almost immediately, “I have known almost no arithmetic instruction. Even if I did have sufficient recommendations at my disposal, it is unlikely I would pass the examination.”

“I’ll teach you,” Edward offers without hesitation. 

“Sir?”

“If it confounds you for being unknown - if you only want for instruction,” Edward reiterates, clearing his throat, “I will find the time to teach you, if you like.”

“Do you suppose --” Jopson frowns. “I do not wish for you to be moved by pity, Sir. I take pride in the job I do.”

“You do it exceptionally,” Edward assures him. “It is no such thing as pity, I promise you.” Their eyes hold. “Besides,” he adds, “it would serve me well to review my own knowledge, should Captain Crozier think to ask me about it in front of the mates.”

“Very well, then.” Jopson blushes, turns his eyes from Edward, hiding away a smile. Edward catches some of it, even so.

“I should tell you that Lieutenant Irving is far more proficient than myself, if you want the highest possible quality of instruction.”

“I would prefer it were you who taught me, Sir,” Jopson says softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In researching this I found out that Edward Little was one of the witnesses to Thomas Blanky’s will and I am Not Okay.


	12. Peglar

**Chapter Twelve - Peglar**

_ May 1846 - Beechey Island _

The first ship Harry ever served on didn’t take health and cleanliness inspections seriously enough. Seventeen men fell in a single fortnight, each expiring within hours of the one before, passing the illness like a torch in a relay race and carving a path through young and old alike. Ship’s fever bites into a sailor’s body like an insatiable tick, sapping his strength in a matter of hours and leaving nothing but an empty husk, blue-lipped and shriveled, ready to be tipped overboard back into the sea from whence all life came. Only then will his body remember what it feels like to be cool. One of the first things they’d shown ship’s boy Harry Peglar was how to make shrouds from sailcloth. There are many ways to die at sea, but some men refuse to learn what life insists on teaching. 

They fear scurvy - though that scourge of the sea doesn’t let a man meet his maker for years after he first begins the dance - and they fear consumption, yet they keep themselves in the most abominable state of filth and turn their nose up at the sugared lemon juice, courting the attention of the reaper that seems to circle all of Her Majesty’s ships.

“--and mark down three days duty owing, Mister Lane,” Lieutenant Hodgson orders before he moves down the line to the next nervous seaman holding out his hands. “Jerry,” he tuts, “What do you call this collar?”

“‘Pologies, Sir, I’ve only just come off the watch--”

“It’s so red about the throat we might take you for an admirer of the departed Boney.” Hodgson shakes his head reproachfully. “One day duty owing, Mister Lane. Mark it.” The lieutenant has only a cursory glance to give Harry, who, knowing it was inspection day, spent what extra few minutes he could get at the basin this morning. 

“Can’t rightly stand those inspections,” Alex Berry grouses once they’re through and Lieutenant Hodgson has said his bit about expecting better, recounting exactly how many men earned duty in the log today. Eleven of them.

“Us standing about there like horses on market day,” Leys concurs while struggling with his shirt. His voice comes out muffled. “And that Lieutenant Hodgson damn near feeling out my teeth—makes me itch, that does.”

That’ll be the lice. 

“What, the five teeth you have left, Leys?” Harry snipes as he walks by. “Better hold on to them tight or he’ll nick ‘em.”

“Try double that,” Leys calls after him, to much laughter. 

“Reckon you’ll be off to the glue factory soon then, Davey?” Strong ribs. Leys shoves at him with his bunched up linen, jostling the other AB. Strong gets pushed about a bit more, barrelling into Berry and back into Leys, but he takes it in good spirits, laughing all the while. 

“You don’t know the stuff I’m made of, gents,” Leys laughs. “Reckon my teeth would last longer than all of yous.”

+

Evans comes sliding down the ropes with a question on his lips when he sees Harry arrive through the hatch. “Will we be able to set sail again soon do you reckon, Mister Peglar?”

“If the ice gives.” It’s no fun for a captain of the foretop - or any topman, he supposes - to see the masts so bare. It hurts deep in his chest. Harry enjoys the rigging of it, always checking every knot is in its proper place. He’s good at it, too. Now it’s like missing seventy extra limbs, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Mister Blanky thinks it will.”

“What are you asking me for, then?” Harry retorts. “Mister Blanky is likely correct.”

“Glad you seem to think so, Mister Peglar,” the man himself laughs, behind him, “else I’d be real concerned I haven’t been teaching you as I ought.” Mister Blanky groans, stretching out his back before he continues. “Lieutenant Little requests another report. I know I don’t need to remind you to be prompt about it.”

“Thorough, isn’t he just?”

+

Soup again, Harry notes with displeasure. That’s the fifth day in a row, now. It’s watery, one really needs to dive to find the bits of meat that are proudly advertised on the can. Mister Diggle has put a good effort into thickening it, but the bits of wheatmeal bobbing about don’t make for a hearty dinner.

“What’d’ye suppose that’s about?” Farr asks, nudging his chin towards the corner where a colourful group sits, talking in hushed voices. 

“Just Mister Hickey stirring the pot, I imagine,” says Reuben. 

“Don’t see how that’ll make the soup taste better.” Harry shrugs. He’s content to keep his nose in his own bowl. 

“Aye,” Reuben agrees, sounding thoughtful. “Easier to swallow, though, maybe?”

“Tricky little rat, isn’t he?” Farr sneers. They’ve all heard Darlington’s complaints - he’ll make them to any fool not fast enough to scatter when he’s in a mood.  _ Layabout. Dirty bugger. Insouciant rat-faced bastard.  _ The caulker’s not best pleased with the slip of a mate he’s been saddled with. 

“Not to all,” Harry points out. There is quite a crowd around him, after all. Mister Gibson is chief amongst them and despite everything, Cornelius Hickey is a popular man on  _ Terror _ . He’d considered Billy Gibson a discerning man, once upon a time. Now he’s not so sure. The steward and the caulker’s mate have been hanging about one another often enough that it calls for some concern, Harry thinks. 

Not that he’ll be the one to ring the alarm. Christ, not for that - that’d be the day! But Billy is a friend - or was - and there’s something about Mister Hickey that makes a man reluctant to relinquish his friends into his keeping. 

“Aye, well, a rat’s a rat, no matter if some men take it for a lamb,” Reuben says. 

“Tastes better if you tell yourself it’s lamb,” Farr notes. 

“It’s probably rat, come to think of it,” Goddard agrees as he sits down next to Reuben. He’s too busy scowling at his meagre dinner to notice the conversation has shifted from the red cans they all despise. “That damned Goldner cut all the corners he could. Tastes bloody awful.”

“You can stomach that for all the five pieces of meat in your ration,” Harry encourages. 

“What! Five?” Reuben laughs. “This is my seventh. Dining like royalty tonight, I am.”

“Savour it,” Farr advises. “There’ll be worse, and no mistake.”

+

He volunteers when Mister MacBean asks for someone to deliver news to  _ Erebus _ , eager to get off  _ Terror _ for a change and more eager still to catch a glimpse of John, if he can manage it. Trekking through half a mile of ice isn’t a bad trade-off at all when he looks at it like that. Maybe he’ll personally deliver that book he’s been meaning to show John. It’s not even snowing at present, so he finds his way without much trouble at all. 

Lieutenant Fairholme welcomes him aboard, inquiring first after the health of Neptune and then  _ Terror’s _ crew. He doesn’t seem to think it odd. “I’m sure he misses you, Sir,” Harry answers seriously. 

“Do you imagine so?” Fairholme’s eyebrows climb high up his very regal looking forehead. “It has been some time since I’ve carried a message to  _ Terror _ , hasn’t it?”

“Best use the chance before we’re afloat again, Sir,” Harry counsels. They come to a stop in front of Sir John’s ostentatious cabin. “Won’t be long, that.”

“Mister Reid seems to agree, Mister Peglar,” Fairholme tells him before he pushes the door open. “A message from  _ Terror _ , Sir.”

“Thank you, Walter,” Sir John says from where he is comfortably seated, playing a game of chess against Commander Fitzjames. They are somewhat  _ deshabillé _ . Both men have done away with their coats, and the state of Fitzjames’ collar would earn anyone in the fo'c'sle duty in the log for a week or more. “Hoar, see about getting Mister Peglar something to warm his bones. I’m sure he’s quite chilly.” 

Harry enjoys his tepid cup of over-brewed tea as Sir John peruses the contents of Captain Crozier’s letter with a very bored look about his face before handing it to Commander Fitzjames. His second snorts after a mere skim. “That will be all, Mister Peglar. No return message at this time.”

It’s what he had most hoped to hear. He’s not been over on  _ Erebus _ overly much, but he knows his way about some, so finding the steward’s quarters is an easy feat. There is some benefit to the admiralty’s pedantic regulations, namely that ships of a line are made exactly the same. If you know one bomb vessel, you know them all, be they classed  _ Vesuvius _ or  _ Hecla _ .

John is in his cabin, busy with Fitzjames’ mending from the looks of it, but he smiles up at Harry when he darkens his doorstep. “I thought I heard them say you’d come aboard. Hullo, Harry. Aren’t you a sight for my much abused eyes?”

“Abused, you say?” Harry laughs, stepping closer after drawing the curtain shut behind him, decisively. He takes John’s face in his hands and makes a show of inspecting it. It is lovely as ever. “Let me see, then.”

“Not quite so literally, my dear,” John tells him. He sets down his mending, reaching around Harry’s standing form to grab at the small nightstand the berth allows for. His fingers graze the back of Harry’s thigh - he hardly feels it under his layers, but he does feel it in his heart. John’s got a book in hand now, flicking it open to find and hand Harry a neatly folded piece of paper. 

“What’s this - ah!” Harry cringes away when he realizes what the crude pencil etchings are meant to depict. “Oh, that’s not very good at all, is it?”

“I found it,” John relates, appearing amused, “tucked away in one of the books recently returned from  _ Terror _ .”

His hand gently takes the sketch back from Harry, who’d been close to crumpling it. “It would seem you’ve quite the artist on your hands. Young men these days are all so accomplished, are they not?”

“But John, that’s foul!” Harry gasps. “If someone found that in your things—”

“Do you think they’d believe I had a change of inclinations in the cold north?” John’s eyes twinkle. 

“Isn’t right, depicting a woman’s nakedness like that,” Harry gripes. 

John laughs, fondly. “My dear Harry, our Mister Goodsir would grow quite apoplectic if he saw this. I can hardly imagine that any man who has looked upon a naked woman would have produced something so anatomically dubious as what I’ve just shown you.”

Well, yeah. Harry knows that. He’s looked upon a naked woman or two in his time and enjoyed it, even — it’s why it had taken him so long to figure out what he was looking at. “Can’t imagine why anyone would--”

“I can,” John says, softly. “Loneliness, Harry. It’s cold here and there’s little comfort to be had, besides what a man makes for himself.” That’s fair, maybe, but still. Supposed to limit that stuff to your fancies, aren’t you? Not scrawl it between pages of a book that gets passed around the ships. “-- _ I’m _ not immune to it, certainly.”

“Not with all your books, surely!” Harry protests, but the conversation has shifted from shared, private amusement to something else. John looks away from him, inhaling sharply. His cheeks are as ruddy as if he had been the one to make the trek between the ships. “You once told me you were never lonely with the right words in mind.”

_ But how would we bear it?  _ Harry had asked him, years ago, mouthing at John’s jawline.  _ How would I bear seeing you everyday while not being able to touch you? _ John had chuckled and carded a hand through Harry’s hair —it had been much longer then —before whispering delightful verses into Harry’s skin.  _ We would have remembrance of all this to tide us over, my dear, and land is never so far away as you might think. _

“The prettiest words can’t rightly make up for a soft touch, I’ve come to realize,” John admits. “Age is making me rather more sentimental than I was, I fear. Or perhaps that is the cold, Harry. I long for warmth I cannot imagine words may provide.”

Isn’t that something novel? After knowing John for so many years, he’d never thought the man would say such a thing. Feel it, maybe, but admit it? John is stubborn as a mule when he believes facts and reason to be on his side.

“Are you certain, John? I’ve a poem I reckon would leave you tolerably warm.” 

“I’m keen to hear it, then,” says John. 

_ “Sing me a song, sweet John—”  _ here Harry improvises, for that is not how the original goes, but it suits his purposes, so he’s alright with a bit of license “— _ and quench me with sweet wine. When the bottle comes around, pass it with your hands into mine,”  _ Harry recites, smiling when John complies with part of the request. His hand is still cold from the ice, no doubt. Even after that spot of tea he can’t rightly get warm in these parts, but it’s something for John to hold on to, nonetheless. A soft touch.

“I don’t think it was me who taught you that, my dear.”

“When I was last in the Mediterranean,” Harry recalls, stroking his thumb across John’s palm. “I met a young man from the Levant near Malta. He was good company. Well read, too. I suppose I have a type, John. There’s no helping it.”

“Is that so?”

“So it was,” Harry recounts. That was after John, of course. After the first few times with John, as a matter of fact. When Harry — newly conscious of what pleasure may be had satisfying urges he never had indulged in before — had grown drunk on it and found himself greedy for more, for all. They’d made port in Malta to restock, and he’d fallen in with the dear lad immediately. What little shore leave he had was passed between haystacks. “I don’t suppose you’d care to hear the poem’s end?”

“Try me, Harry.”

So Harry does. It’s nothing to be said aloud, so he bends to whisper it into John’s ear, much like the young man had done to him, first in Arabic and then in English. It’s gratifying, somewhat, to feel John tense up beneath him, to be able to note the cords of muscle which still hold this dear old man together. What Harry does not expect is a hand to curl around the back of his thigh, firmly this time rather than a fleeting touch, with intent behind it that leaves Harry reeling. 

“Can’t imagine why a young man from the Levant would take an interest in such lewd poetry.” John pretends very well to not be affected, but Harry has long since known to read him. Much better than a book, in truth. Harry laughs, though he must make an effort not to give himself over to the notions that have been coursing through him since John confessed a longing for human touch. Harry’s touch would do, surely. 

“You can imagine easily, John,” Harry chides. The hand around his thigh climbs higher, now he feels a fair bit of the contact even through his layers. Shaking, his hands come down upon John’s shoulders. The intent is unmistakable. “We were done with that, I thought.”

The hand pauses in its exploration. John’s eyes are filled with guilt when he raises them to meet Harry’s inquiring gaze. It was as much by mutual choice as circumstance, back then, but John’s resolute refusal to break the articles played some part as well. “Forgive an old man his weakness, would you?”

“Easily forgiven,” Harry promises, cupping John’s cheek to lend credit to this claim. In truth, there is nothing to absolve John of. “But what is your hand doing, I wonder?”

“I suspect you know my hand’s motivation, Harry,” John murmurs, “and where it should wish to travel.”

Harry sighs, entirely unopposed to the contact. But when was he the one that ever drew a line so sharp? “Need I remind you that we are on a ship, John? Ice-locked or not.”

“Is that your gripe?” John presses a kiss to the sleeve of Harry’s coat. Skin is hard to come by, but by God, does John try. 

“Yours, I should say, more pressingly,” Harry gasps when he feels John skin on skin, his finely made hand pushing below Harry’s waistcoat, having already snaked its way past the outer layers. How long has it been since he has felt him there and elsewhere? “ _ I’ve _ had -  _ ah _ . I’ve had my way on a ship before, but I don’t think we’ll have time to recite the poem in full, if you take my meaning. Not today, anyway.”

“I am weak,” John says, pulling Harry closer and burying his face against a shirt that desperately needs laundering.

“You are no such thing, my friend.”

Another painting makes the rounds on  _ Terror _ some days later. This one is even less intent on depicting anatomical correctness. If Harry were making guesses he’d take it to represent a rather un-christian position. But it’s enough that the whole mess is abuzz because of it, and Harry’s now got a headache. He decides he’s better off leaving the guessing to rapt ABs. 

+

“What’s that on your neck, Jerry?” Harry asks when they’re all elbowing for room at the basin. It’s late, their hammocks are calling, but that looks right nasty. 

“Has Jerry got himself a sea-wife, then?” teases Crispe, trying to get a look beneath the collar. “Reckon you’d tell us where to find one?”

“Looks proper brutish, Crispe,” Strong laughs, wrinkling his nose. “I’d stay far away from anyone who’d make me look like that.” 

“Jerry,” Harry says again, sharply. 

“It’s nothing, Mister Peglar,” says the seaman in question, trying to pull his collar higher. It is to no avail. Harry has already seen what he must to be concerned. He doesn’t like the look of that redness one bit. If Jerry’s ill, then soon— “Report to sick bay immediately.”

“They’ll have gone to bed, Mister Peglar, can’t it wait?”

“He’s just come off watch, Harry,” Reuben says, stifling a yawn, “and I saw Doctor Peddie slinking past us some fifteen minutes ago.”

“Could always pay him a conjugal visit, couldn’t you, Jerry?” Crispe snorts. “Doctor’s better acquainted with my parts than my wife at this point.” 

“Sure your wife’s glad for that,” Strong elbows the querulent seaman away from the soap. “Might be ‘cause you reek to the high heavens, Sam.” 

“Don’t shove me away from the bloody basin then, you great fucking beanpole.” 

Harry sighs, turning once more to Jerry. “First thing tomorrow, Jerry.” And may God or his likeness have mercy on them all if he’s caught the fever.

“Aye, surely, Mister Peglar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem said by my beta reader to have “shanked” them can be found [here](http://poemsintranslation.blogspot.com/2015/05/abu-nuwas-wine-boys-and-song-from-arabic.html?m=1<)


	13. MacDonald

**Chapter Thirteen - MacDonald**

_ June 1846 - Away from Beechey Island, at last! _

A pained groan reverberates through  _ Terror’s  _ lower decks, startling Alexander into wakefulness. No man is capable of making such a sound. “You’ll want to be up on deck for this,” Mister Blanky tells him when their paths cross down below. “We’ll be up and about any moment now. That’s the ice breaking, Doctor.”

“Is it?” Alexander asks, softly. He can’t quite believe it. Time seems to stop while a ship is frozen in ice. They could have passed a hundred days or a hundred years at Beechey - he wouldn’t have known the difference. 

“Nah, I’m messing you around,” Blanky shoots back, quick-witted to the point of rudeness. “Course it is - what do you take me for?”

“Right,” says Alexander, nodding along. “I’ll come up, I only need my coat first. Mister Armitage mended the shoulders for me some days ago, and I’ve not seen it since.”

“Blink and you’ll miss it,” Blanky grins. “Hurry up, but if you do find Mister Armitage, ask him where he’s put my good shirt, please. He’ll know which one I mean -- put a hole in the elbow, so I did. Crying shame.”

The deck is in half a riot for all the men cheering at the gunwale, but  _ Terror _ is not without order, even so. Lieutenant Little stands looking out for  _ Erebus _ , careful not to put the telescope too close to his eye, product of a hard lesson learned in winter regarding what happens to metal in sub-zero climes. Tom Hartnell, who came aboard  _ Terror  _ after burying his brother on the rocky terrain of Beechey, is the only man who looks sullen. Doctor Stanley had sent his assessment over with the man, reporting the Erebites had given way to suspicion, believing it to be a bad omen that one brother should stay when the other went. Hartnell had become something of a pariah, and it seems that he hardly fares better on  _ Terror.  _

“What news from _ Erebus?”  _ someone calls. 

“Good fucking riddance to Beechey, eh? May we never see you again! _ ” _

He hears someone cheer for the passage, a sentiment soon echoed by a dozen voices or more. They’ve not found it yet, but Alexander cannot help feeling that they are close. 

+

Mister Jerry looks at his feet the whole time Alexander takes his history, but there is something belligerent in the little glimpses he catches of the AB’s eyes that makes Alexander question how much truth he may be hiding. “You’ve no idea how you might have come about these lesions?”

Stubbornly, Jerry continues to shake his head. “Some months ago, you might have noticed a singular lesion,” Alexander prompts. The AB is quiet, frowning hard. In such cases, his instructors would have reminded him to stifle the sigh surely making it’s way up his throat. Nothing impedes work like an unwilling patient.

“I don’t have the clap,” he finally grumbles. 

“Well, of course you don’t,” Alexander confirms, somewhat puzzled. He is rather certain it is syphilis the man suffers from, not gonorrhea. “You’ve not reported any pus—”

“Never took up with a hussy, me,” Jerry insists, more hotly. “Are we done here?”

“You’re free to go,” Alexander says, “but I would like to keep an eye on those lesions.” 

They may have to isolate him, he means. When he tells Peddie about it later, the man chuckles heartily. “Easy mistake for a man of his medical understanding to make, what with all these colloquial names floating about.”

“I - he claims to have been ignorant of his condition, but I’ve reason to believe he might have sought out treatment.”

“Why do you say that?” 

“His teeth.”

“Ah, has he a line in the gums? We must have missed it during his inspection.”

Alexander nods. 

“Well, we’ve mercury with us,” Peddie says, probably tallying the stores in his head, “though not, I think, any bismuth. It might be advisable to continue treatment now, if the rash has spread to most of his body, rather than wait for Oahu. I shudder to think what he may look like on the inside.”

“It does not astound you that he would lie?”

“I suppose he is ashamed, Alexander. A great many people are - and who knows how he might have contracted it? I’ll have a look at him myself, shall I?”

+

As part of his studies Alexander had needed to learn how to draw, but he had only ever done so with the specimen to be depicted in front of his eyes. To conjure Annie to paper with nothing but memory to guide him he finds nigh impossible. The likeness lacks that which he admires most about her: some spark in her eyes, a fleeting twitch of a smile, or the wind in her hair. He cannot rightly name it as he sits staring down at his work, only knowing that it is not enough. What he would not give for a daguerreotype of her. 

“Doctor?” He looks up to see Sergeant Tozer hovering at the entrance to sick bay, the curtain half-pulled shut behind him already. “Don’t mean to disturb you, if you’re busy--” 

Alexander greets him, surprised. “What may I do for you, Sergeant?”

“Was wonderin’—” Tozer kicks his boot against the wooden flooring, pushing away from the wall to come sit down where Alexander bids him. “Wrist’s still acting up,” he finally admits.

“May I see?”

Tozer nods, tugging off his gloves with an expression of displeasure. There’s still a rather gaping hole in one of them. Predictably, that is where his chilblains are the worst. 

“Not taking it easy, I imagine?”

“Can’t,” grunts the marine. “Meat needs hunting. Officers need protecting.”

“While that may be so, Sergeant, I really cannot stress enough the importance of allowing your hands time to heal.”

“Aye, thank you Doctor. That’s grand.”

“Have you used the salve I gave you?”

Tozer nods. “Morning and night, like you said. Helped some.”

“I’ll see that you are given more, then,” Alexander tells him, “but it will hardly do you good if you do not get that glove fixed.” He mentally revisits his gripe about uncooperative patients. 

“Right,” says the sergeant, clearing his throat. “Need my gloves mended, true enough. Can’t very well go about my job otherwise. Should do that.”

“Only think of how important your job is! I know I sleep more soundly at night knowing the marines are around.” Although that has, in fact, been becoming more difficult, through no fault of the red-coated faction on  _ Terror _ . 

“Oh, I hardly think it’s you who’d need protecting, Doctor. Even in the worst case.”

“I understand you are from Axbridge, Sergeant?” Alexander asks, looking to change the subject. When Tozer confirms as much, he adds, “I hear a great deal of Bristol in your speech.” 

The sergeant scratches at his neck. “Made my way there, for a time,” he reveals. “Before my father kicked the bucket, that is. Tried my hand at being a carpenter for a while.”

“That sounds like an interesting story,” Alexander prompts. 

Tozer pulls a face that Alexander supposes must mean he disagrees, but he humours him anyway. “Found a carpenter to take me on. Must have been, oh, fourteen at most. He’d come to Axbridge to visit relations, and I ran off to follow him. Keen to get out, you understand? He was a good man. Lived with him for some three years, but it’s not skilled tradesmen who are valued nowadays, unless you’re on a ship or the like, of course. Factory started cropping up, one, and then the next, and soon he couldn’t afford to keep me on. When I left he couldn’t even afford to feed his children.”

He leans back, crossing his arms. “Worked as a day labourer in Bristol for some six months, miserable as you might imagine. Almost thought of going back to Axbridge and seeing if I could live as a shoemaker after all, but my sister told me by letter that our father had found an apprentice, and they were probably as hard up as I was by then, weren’t they? Crisis hit them just as it did everyone else - didn’t have much saved, could never afford that, though we’d always been fed well. Made my way to London, then. Slept where I could.”

“As a vagrant?”

“Oh, aye, you don’t gotta spit that out like it’s shameful, Doctor. Recruiter approached me as I was lingering around the docks looking for work, and that ended most of the misery.”

“You misunderstand me, Sergeant,” Alexander clears his throat. “It is not you who should feel shame. By all means, it sounds as though you tried hard as you might to earn a living.”

Tozer raises his eyebrows. “Earning a living, aye.” He kicks his foot, looking distracted. “Begs the question of what’s to be done when you can’t earn your existence despite your  _ best efforts _ , doesn’t it? Suppose we’ll find out the answer with the next crisis in manufacturing, eh? Comes around like clockwork every few years, sure enough.”

“I shudder to think of it.”

He’s read the reports, of course he has. Most interesting observations on the health and sanitary habits of England’s working class, as well as from overseas. This question Sergeant Tozer ponders has been on the lips of politicians and seditionists both. It’s no hardship for Alexander to interpret the angry glint in Tozer’s eyes as an allegiance to the latter. 

“But like I said, Doctor,” Tozer says, adjusting the grip of his arms around himself, “wouldn’t worry yourself on that account.”

They shouldn’t speak of such things. 

“A physician is rather useful to keep alive,” Alexander laughs, despite himself, playing it off as a joke. “Even for mutineers, God forbid.”

Tozer shakes his head. “Don’t think it’s that.”

He pulls his glove back on, though the process obviously pains him. “Talk in the mess has shifted, is all. You’ve grown on the men. ”

“Rather like a cancer, I imagine.” 

“That’s glib,” laughs the sergeant. He stands, but as he does so, his eyes get caught on Alexander’s half-done portrait. “That your wife, Doctor?”

“My Annie,” Alexander smiles to remember her. “It’s not a very good likeness, mind.”

“Looks fine to me, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“Sure she’d be pleased to hear it,” Alexander assures him. “Always enjoyed a compliment.”

“I’ll tell her myself when she welcomes you back to England, then,” Tozer smiles. He turns to the door, but his movements are stayed by Alexander’s question. 

“Are you married?”

Tozer scratches at his neck again. “Could have been,” he says, frowning. “Wasn’t me she wanted, in the end, so we called it off.”

“That sounds very noble of you.”

“Aye, well,” Tozer shrugs. “Seemed like the right thing to do, askin’, but she got who she wanted. Reckon that was the best outcome. What we did before wasn’t very noble, if you take my meaning. Bit like our Sergeant Bryant over on  _ Erebus _ . Married his Mary-Ann only ten days before we set sail. Worried she might join the pudding club, you see?”

“Ah,” Alexander realizes, feeling a surge of guilt. Annie had insisted she didn’t want to be married, but ought he-- “I might have become a father, some months ago.”

He doesn’t know why he tells this to a marine sergeant. “My congratulations then, Doctor,” Tozer grins. “Reckon the child will do you proud.”

Then he is on his way. 

+

Lieutenant Little sits by the window. In the dim light of the wardroom, hardly aided by the illuminator, he is thumbing through a book Alexander does not recognize as belonging to  _ Terror’s  _ library. With his free hand, he is scratching Neptune’s head, who stands - tail wagging, tongue out - basking in the attention. 

“Evening, Doctor.” Little shuts his book, standing to greet him. “Have you come to make your report?”

“Doctor Peddie has been to see the captain already.” Alexander closes the door behind himself. “I’ve only come to borrow a book. And beg a cup of tea off Jopson - the gunroom is already cleared. I suspect Armitage is asleep and am hesitant to wake him for such trivialities.”

“I expect Jopson will show himself soon. There’s no telling where he might be at present.”

“I hear you’ve been shut up here most nights, Lieutenant,” Alexander addresses him after he has found his intended volume. “Are you reading for pleasure?”

“Suffice it to say I prefer other tomes when I am at my leisure,” Little says, putting the book down momentarily. “But needs must.”

“I quite agree,” Alexander tells him, “only do remember to think of your own needs every once in a while.” Upon hearing this, the lieutenant’s face pinches, he transforms into a man who appears quite constipated. Perhaps Alexander has hit upon a sore spot. 

“I’ll take that under consideration,” he presses out at last. “Good night, Doctor.”


	14. Tozer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Eh, Tommy, help a fella out, wouldya?' These gloves, buddy--- you wouldn't believe it'

**Chapter Fourteen - Tozer**

_ September 1846 _ \-  _ South of Peel Sound _

The captain of the fo’c’sle turned twenty-eight today. He’s a popular man, even Sol’s marines like him and so have gone off to celebrate with the rest of the men. Now Sol, on the other hand, he’s just come off a four-hour watch. His hands ache something awful, and his foot’s been acting up. He’s not keen on stomping around, but Reuben’s a pal, so he stumbles in to ruffle his hair real quick and give him a clap on the back. Excuses are made swiftly thereafter. “I’ll stand you a smoke when we’re on watch together next,” Sol promises vaguely. 

Reuben grins. “I’ll make sure to rotate into yours, then.”

“Cheeky,” Sol chides. “See you’re easily bought, Mister Male.”

“Today I am,” Reuben laughs, already being pulled back into a crowd of friends. 

Half of their hammocks aren’t up yet when he finds his way below. Sol makes sure to hang his own before he starts the painful process ahead of him; prioritizing is important and all that. He tugs his gloves off with his teeth and looks around for a needle before he cuts a strip from one of his old shirts, folding it just like his Ma taught him. Doesn’t remember much of her, aye, but he’d watch her mend stockings and the like for hours when he was little. Should have watched harder, in truth. Maybe he would have learned something more than the sorry talent he possesses now. He’s sewn buttons back on before - this will not best him. 

He is half an hour at his work when someone interrupts him, with nothing much to show for it but aching hands, but those are long familiar to many of the men. There comes Armitage, passing through on his way to the linen closet from the looks of it. 

“All right there, Sergeant?”

“On your way,” he grumbles. 

Armitage doesn’t listen, of course, but then it wasn’t really an order, was it? More a gruff but well-meant warning not to come any closer, useless for all Armitage heeds it. The steward sets his empty basket down, hands all propped on his hips like he means business. “Could just let me see to that glove,” he huffs. “Or else work yourself bloody and find yourself wanting for warmth, still. Worth nanty to me.”

Awful lot of words for someone professing not to care.

“Go above and beyond, do you?” It’s a weak response, aye. Might be that he’s tired of pushing the lad away when he’s clearly panting for attention. Might be something else. Sure as all hell Sol can’t rightly say, only it's gone on long enough, and he’s tired. 

“Only offering a hand.”

Sol scoffs. He tries to bury his head in his hands, quickly finding they are shot all to hell. Hurts, putting any pressure on them now. Overdone it with the needle all too quickly. 

“Need both hands to shoot a gun, don’t you?” Armitage’s voice has turned coaxing. 

“I’ve managed well with one.” Sol shrugs. Has to, what with his wrists being as they are just now. Can’t rely on his right hand to shoot some days. Other days it’s better. Bit of a toss up, really. “Nothing to be doing, Mister Armitage?”

The lad doesn’t bristle anymore to hear Sol address him so formally when all the others have dispensed with the social niceties you’d expect between marines and a petty officer. He’s Tommy to them, and no mistake. Half a marine already, to hear them tell it. 

“Done for the night, me,” says the steward, nodding to his empty basket. 

“Are you?”

“Only meant to be returning that to Mister Gibson. Borrowed it earlier and can’t find him just now. Thought I’d check the hold. Hangs about there most nights, he does.”

“Might’ve gone up,” Sol suggests, aching for a pipe just about now. A bit of tobacco to settle him: that’d do away with the sweat gathering at his nape, surely. 

“He wasn’t there,” Armitage claims. “Looked for him, too.”

“Pity.”

“No reason your hands should be hurting more than they have to, Sergeant.”

Sol scowls at him. Armitage has a little pocketbook of thread and needles that he keeps in his coat. It’s made the occasional appearance down here, and he fishes it out now, brow raised in question. Sol eyes the steward warily for a minute before he submits, forking over the gloves gracelessly. They’ll be mended better for it, true enough. 

He settles back to watch the lad work, can’t rightly help himself. Pretty’s still the first word that comes to mind. Efficient, that’s the second, when Armitage bites off the thread after only four minutes and calls his work finished. 

He’ll always be able to tell they’re mended, but Armitage has done a swell job. “You’ll feel the burn of the cold for a while yet, I imagine. Hands all red like that.”

“Aye, it’s what the good doctor warned.” Sol flexes his hands, biting back a hiss at the sudden pain. “Never been anywhere cold as this.”

Armitage chuckles. 

“Have you?”

“I have not,” Armitage says, “but then I chose to sign on, didn’t I? Knew what I was getting into, you might say. Or should have known, at the very least. Hard predicting the things we’ve seen, isn’t it?”

The pocketbook returns from whence it came, and Armitage stands again. He’ll be on his way now. Against his better judgement, Sol is put out to see him go. It’s not half-bad, sitting around and talking with him when there isn’t a contingent of privates around them making bawdy jokes. Got a nice voice, Armitage has, and some sense about him. 

“Easier with help,” says Armitage, eyeing Sol’s coat. “Lots of buttons on that.” Sol hardly knows how they got to be standing so close, but Armitage’s hand hovers over the gleaming rows at his chest, questioningly. 

“Go on, then.”

Fine, unblemished steward’s hands ease one button after another out of its hole. Sol hardly feels him work until Armitage is rubbing the threadbare shirt Sol wears tonight between his fingers. “Should get that mended, too.”

“Aye, rightly I should,” Sol agrees even as he knows he is not up to such a task. “Got hands only good for shooting, me.”

Armitage hums. “Shoot fast, do you?”

“I can take my time with it if need be,” Sol answers, sure he can detect a double-meaning there. The trail of buttons leads down south, and where there are buttons, Armitage’s hands follow. They’re all calm, steady-like. This is what the junior officers are getting, night after night. Sol’s glad he doesn’t rank quite so high - wouldn’t know what to do with himself after a while, having a pretty lad like that close to him so often. Come to that, he’s not sure what to do with himself  _ now _ , seeing Armitage expel warm puffs of air between them. 

“Think I’d like to learn how to handle a gun.” Armitage’s voice has gone low, almost a whisper. 

“Made a fine showing at Beechey. You’re a crack shot.” Armitage smiles to hear it. “Seemed to me like you’d practiced some before.”

“Some,” Armitage admits. “Wanted to be a marine, me. Would have been if it weren’t for the damned ear. But -” He’s arrived at the last button, easing Sol’s waistcoat over his shoulders. His bare hands brush Sol’s skin. “-it’s no use crying over spilled milk, as they say. Made it to sea in the end, didn’t I?”

And then one of his hands is elsewhere, acting as question and proposition both. “Which now leads me to you, Sergeant, who no doubt could do with a bit of help cleaning out your musket. Don’t want it backfiring or going off at the wrong time, do we?”

Armitage raises his eyes to meet Sol’s. He sees a thousand different things there all at once. Can’t put a name to any, but he can dismiss uncertainty. “Aye, go on,” he relents, hissing in anticipation when Armitage’s hand stops just shy of his target. No use pushing him away now, is there? They’ve both shown their hands - Armitage when he took Sol in it, and Sol when he rose to being baited in such a manner all too quickly. Saw it coming, too, didn’t he? Could have run from it, didn’t. Now at least Sol ought to be man enough to admit to what he wants. 

“Show me,” Armitage urges, twisting his hand once or twice experimentally. He has the hang of it, mostly. Strokes like that will clean you out nice and quick even if they’re not artful.

“Bit of target practice?”

“If you like, yes.” Armitage grins. “Take aim, Sergeant. I’ll keep her steady for you.”

He paws at Armitage, pulling him closer only to find out how he feels pressed insistently against Sol’s thigh. Armitage hardly needs the guidance he’d asked for: he’s quick to pick it up. Sol ignores the bite in his hands when he crushes Armitage against him. “You do this for all Her Majesty’s marines, Mister Armitage?”

“Only the nice ones,” insists Armitage, sporting a very sly grin as he uses Sol’s thigh to his own purpose. His head falls against Sol’s shoulder. The man’s rapidfire breaths send Sol’s head spinning. He looks to invisible skies in the hopes of prolonging this. Embarrassing, really, if he fires now, when he can take his time and boasted of it, even.

“I’m not nice,” he pants. Not to Armitage, he hasn’t been. 

“Nice to look at,” Armitage counters, the words spoken wetly against Sol’s skin. He shivers. 

“You been looking?”

“Know that I have,” Armitage says. His grip tightens at the critical moment. “Know you’ve noticed.”

“Christ,” Sol sighs, slumping at last. His knees would buckle if he weren’t interlocked with Armitage. The steward steps back swiftly, leaving Sol to a sad fate of sliding down the wall. He is boneless. Emptied out. Cleaned. 

“Every shot a winner,” Armitage grins, wiping his hand clean with a handkerchief. “All true what they say, I see.”

+

_ Terror _ didn’t shift half as much while they were frozen in at Beechey as she does while she’s following  _ Erebus _ into a different part of ice; Blanky says that’s on account of their being sheltered by the coast then - . 

Now, he doesn’t understand the steam engines - doesn’t need to, neither - but he’s sure he could do without their constant rumblings. Could also do without the constant spills during dinner when they’re tossed about. Minor inconveniences, all in all, but many mickles make a muckle, as they say.

He’s due on deck in a few minutes, so he’s begged a can off Mister Diggle and shoveled in a couple of spoonfuls. Aye, that may be unbecoming, but he’d rather not go without when he’s got four long hours up in the cold ahead of him. Full stomach keeps the warmth in better. Grog wouldn’t go amiss, either, but he’ll save that for later. 

“Tastes like garbage, this does,” Sol complains, because he might as well while it’s only him who’s got Diggle’s ear. Not the worst he’s eaten, still. Not by far. And better than nothing - Christ, he’d gone and told Doctor MacDonald that much, hadn’t he? Whatever for? Yeah, he’d asked, but men accustomed to silver spoons don’t like to hear you’ve used a knife to scrape back-alley bones clean. Makes them uneasy. 

“Aren’t supposed to eat it cold,” Diggle snorts. “Wouldn’t believe what I can do with a dish when I dress it up nice and proper.”

Sol gags but keeps forcing down what will go. Spits out a little ball of metal. Listens to it land on the wood. Fifth one in this can. Fucking Goldner.“Have my respect, Mister Diggle, so you do. Half of what you serve us I can’t even taste the foulness like I can now.”

“Foul?” Diggle’s head whips up. For a second, he stops kneading the hard dough for their biscuits. “Put that down, Tozer. Give it here.”

“Weren’t an insult, Mister Diggle,” Sol grins. “Swear.”

Still, the cook looks too distressed by half, so Sol reluctantly parts with the remainder of his ration. Diggle sniffs at it, inspects the can. “Was the lid dented, do you remember?”

“Nah,” Sol nods to where he tossed it. That damned ship’s dog is licking it clean as they stand about here. “Something wrong, Mister Diggle?”

“Cans go off, some of them,” he explains, his voice hushed. “Those especially need boiling before you can serve them. Could kill a man if they aren’t.”

“I’ll avoid those, in the future.”

“You may well come down earlier so I can cook it before you’re to stand watch, and I’ll do you some salt, even.” Diggle hands the can back over.

“That’s a good bargain, that,” Sol grins. Food is almost empty, by now. “Reckon you’ll do me some tea also?”

“I’ll send someone up.”

“Good man.”

“Fine dining tonight, I see,” says Mister Hickey as he comes striding below. “I’ll take one of those cans, Mister Diggle, if you please.”

“Have at it.”

“I see our Neptune has gotten his treats also,” Hickey grins, squatting down to look the dog in the eye. Challenging the beast for no apparent reason. “Keeps you up all night with his howls, doesn’t he?”

“Reckon he’s caught a scent,” Sol grumbles. “Rat, maybe.”

“Enough of those aboard to know they don’t much catch his interest,” Hickey returns, undaunted.  _ If ever there was a slimier man, _ Sol thinks with distaste. He’d gladly stand a watch with Hodgson again over this nonsense. “Not doing his job very well, is he? Needs some discipline. How many lashes, do you think?”

“Reckon he outranks you, come to that,” Sol snipes, turning to pull his coat fast about him. “The dog can do anything he likes.”

Shouldn’t waste his breath on Mister Hickey. Watch duty calls, after all.

+

Private Heather’s on deck, and so is Captain Crozier. Lieutenant Little is not on watch, but he’s looking over Crozier’s shoulder a few paces behind him. Lots happening on deck just now despite the cold. 

“Looking for an ice report, he is,” Heather tells him with a sly grin. “Mister Blanky’s gone and told the captain there may be open water way out south.”

“Best hurry south, then,” Sol shrugs. “We’ll be frozen in again soon, by my reckoning. Time of the year for it, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I’m hearing,” Billy agrees. “Go where it’s safe. South is warmer, at the very least.” Heather glances at him. “Won’t be enough to keep your damned hands hale, I wager. Still having trouble with your wrists?”

“Some,” Sol admits. “Do all right most days.”

“Course.” Heather nods peaceably. “Wasn’t implying anything. No need to get defensive on me.”

“Tell Mister Diggle Sir John and Commander Fitzjames are coming aboard to dine tonight,” Crozier tells Little. “He can choose whatever he likes from my storeroom. He’ll enjoy that.” Lieutenant Little’s steps lead past the two marines without a glance or word to spare. Usual, that. Still, something to be said for politeness, isn’t there?

“Hell,  _ I’d _ like that,” Heather snorts. “Bit of beef tongue.”

“Washed down with proper ale,” Sol agrees. 

“Or a fine wine.”

“When have you ever had a fine wine, Billy?” Sol thinks of names he’s heard spoken - French, most of them. A Moselle or some shite from the Rhône.  _ Sauvignon blanc.  _ Sounds suspicious to him. Sure there can’t be much difference? Ale’s always ale. 

“Oh, me, I’ve tasted the finer things in life, Sol. Nothing like a Portsmouth dry.”

“Grape juice that’s been left in the sun for too long,” Sol dismisses. He should have known. “Or do you mean you’re not being courteous to the ladies you pay for? That’s bad form, Private.” Which reminds him—

“Doesn’t get much better than that for us, does it?” Billy grins, elbowing him. “Best head below then. I can feel my balls cinching up.”

“Salt in my wounds.”

“I’ll save you a seat at the table,” Billy calls to him as a goodbye, “but I make no promises for your grog!”

+

Mister Armitage isn’t sitting with them tonight for perhaps the first time in months. That’s the first thing he notices about the mess hall. Means Sol’s gotten too used to seeing his head of hair whip up when Sol comes to greet the table. Shouldn’t be like that, should it? He wonders at the steward’s absence, though. With Sir John come aboard, it’s likely he’s only been engaged to help with serving dinner. He’d gotten a glimpse of their commander when Lieutenant Little had welcomed him aboard, though his watch had then been over already. No reason to think he might have run the steward off. 

Whatever worries he might have had are dispelled when he catches a glimpse of the man coming out of officers’ country.

“Evening, gents,” Armitage announces, looking mighty pleased with himself as he drops down next to Sol. Doesn’t look at him once as he does. That’s new, too.

“All done for the night?” Billy wonders. “There’s a spring in your step, Tommy. I like to see it.”

“They’ll have their dinner, yet,” Armitage says, laughing. His eyes are narrowed with mischief. “But Mister Blanky’s pushed it back until they’re done in the wardroom, where Mister Jopson tells me he most assuredly has no need of me. I’ll pass the time with cards, I think.”

“Good man.” Billy approves. “Up for a game, Sol?”

“I’ll do one, aye,” he agrees, muttering into his bowl. Armitage is maintaining a careful distance, which shouldn’t rankle, not after they’d-- Christ, it’s only normal for a man to want to assess where they stand after such an encounter, isn’t it? He knows the drill of shipboard associations. Why is Sol doing his head in like this?

“What rank is that dog?” Hickey’s voice drifts over from two tables away. Sol can only make out his back, but it tickles him to think he might have gotten to the little man earlier. “You ever wonder that?”

“He’s on deck most nights, so I guess you could call that watch duty.” Evans, seated next to Hickey, indulges his fancies. Keeping an ear out, Sol allows Billy to clear the table and accepts the hand he is dealt without checking to make sure Billy isn’t manipulating the cards. Hopeless cause, that is, anyway: trying to dissuade Billy just means fanning his ambition to become more crafty.

“I don’t know. That’d make him a AB, or a marine,” Young suggests. 

“But he can walk the quarterdeck,” Hickey continues, his playful tone sounding forced, “so that’d make him a petty officer at least, right? And some nights he’s back there in officers’ country. Petty officers can’t sleep  _ aft _ . So would that be considered a wardroom officer?”

The table’s not quite so responsive now, but Hickey’s voice has gone louder. 

“What would that be, hm? A mate? A lieutenant?”

“Are we still talking about this dog?” groans Golding.There are some chuckles. 

“It’s of consequence though, isn’t it?” Hickey mutters, low enough that Sol has to strain to make it out. “Putting a dog above a man - and who serves who in that arrangement?”

“It’s a ship’s dog. We put up with it,” Strong tells him. Sol has to admit he rather enjoys hearing someone address Mister Hickey like he’s simple.

Armitage’s elbow connects with his side, though when Sol glances at him the gunroom steward only has eyes for the cards he has yet to play. “Your move, Sergeant.”


	15. Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward can and will be Britishly offended about being touched by unfamiliar officers.

#  **Chapter Fifteen - Little**

_ September 1846 - Further South of Peel Sound _

“--well the brigades already ashore were catching every kind of fire, so I was bringing up the Congreves,” Commander Fitzjames recounts. He sits to Edward’s right, turned sideways in his chair with one leg flung casually over the other. 

“The rockets?” Hodgson asks over the sounds of cutlery. Dinner with the Erebites is always an extravagant affair, and it never wants for good story-telling.

“Yes, exactly.” 

Edward glances at Captain Crozier, directly across from Fitzjames. He’s staring past the commander, having a sip every now and then. Now, Edward has heard this story before from Hodgson over breakfast, but Fitzjames knows how to weave the thread of a story to compel. He can almost imagine the burning heat of Chinkiang. Would he trade it for the cold that is their constant companion these days?

“Ironic, considering it was the Chinese themselves who had pioneered the things. We shot the marksmen down off the city walls, and we started up. As I climbed the ladder I was thinking of... Caesar crossing the Rubicon. We reached the top, and I saw the city of Chinkiang laid out before us, wavering in the morning heat--”

He’d read about it on  _ Vindictive _ months after the fact. Having returned from Portsmouth after passing the examination, newly made mates Williams and Bromley had dangled the news under all noses which they could reach. Later on, when Edward had been called to Captain Nicolas’ cabin, he’d sighed about it.  _ I expect news of victory will reach us soon, Edward _ .  _ No more bloody war with the Chinese. _

He’d still been shaken from his court-martial.  _ Vindictive _ had been thought lost some months before Edward was made her first lieutenant. Despite a full acquittal, the whole business weighed terribly on the captain’s mind.  _ They say I’ve made the best choices, considering the circumstances _ , he’d told Edward,  _ but men were lost, and they were good men, make no mistake. It can drive a man to ruin to linger on decisions made long ago. Revisiting them again and again, thinking: oh, this! What if I had done this, instead? _

_ Might not such reflections help prepare you, in the future? _

Captain Nicolas had chuckled.  _ I dearly hope you may see it that way, should you be faced with your own torments upon a day.  _

Edward hadn’t needed to wait long. 

“--and I had just loaded a rocket and aimed when I was pierced.”

He looks at Fitzjames, who underscores the point he is making with his hands. “Single musket ball, the size of a cherry. It passed clean through my arm and kept on in, making a third wound here, entering my chest.”

“Like the shot that killed Lord Nelson at Trafalgar,” Edward says to make up for not having paid attention these past minutes. Fitzjames’ finger delightedly pokes the air next to his sleeve. He cannot speak much to the rockets that so enthrall the commander, but he does know his history, and his father often spoke of Trafalgar, of a shot like the one that fell at Chinkiang. 

“And had it not used up most of its energy on my arm, yes, I might have ended, same as he.” Fitzjames’ voice is not somber for very long. “They finally got me back to the Cornwallis, where it was our very own Doctor Stanley, in fact, who dug out the shot.”

“That battle turned the war,” Hodgson explains amidst widespread appreciation for the absent surgeon. “The Ching mission came aboard to sign the treaty five weeks later.”

“By which time I was up and about with my arm in a sling, smiling for the official portrait,” Fitzjames finishes. He turns to Captain Crozier, expectant. “Have you seen it?”

“Tell us about Birdshit Island, why don’t you James?” Crozier suggests, “That’s a capital story.”

With the wind thus taken out of his rhetorical sails, Fitzjames can only gape. Edward feels for him - he’s been on the receiving end of the captain’s moods rather often, though admittedly Crozier has never been as blatantly dismissive of him as he is of poor Fitzjames. 

“Mister Reid and I chatted about the ice today,” Sir John breaks the silence that has settled over the table. 

Edward looks for Jopson, needing a refill. When he finds him standing behind Doctor MacDonald, he notices that the steward is already looking at him. Considering how his whiskers have grown quite strongly these past weeks - on account of the magnetic energies, some might suggest - Edward had taken more of an effort to look presentable, as he could not trim them nor felt inclined to ask Genge. The macassar oil he used sparingly. He is pleased to be noticed, if he is being honest with himself. The steward is still holding his gaze, though he is pink about the cheeks now. Edward signals with his glass, and Jopson lowers his eyes as he comes closer to oblige him. 

“He tells me we’ve started sailing past slabs he thinks are not part of the summer break-up.”

“Old ice?” Crozier asks, frowning at the head of the table. 

“He’s not concerned,” Sir John adds, quickly, eyes sweeping the room. “He thinks we’re close to an intersection with some bigger channel coming down from the north, bringing down some bergy bits with it.” There’s some commotion outside the cabin, which Jopson swiftly goes to address. Crozier’s eyebrows rise. “But it means our little summer strait is likely coming to an end.”

As Sir John says this, Edward cannot help but wonder what he means to do now. The naming of this particular bit of water is not quite so high on Edward’s list of priorities as what lies ahead of them: King William Land, or Island, surely. But how will they approach it? He tries to catch Crozier’s eye, but the man is resolutely staring at his cup as he reassures Sir John that Ross would indeed be very pleased to have a strait named for him.

“Pardon me, sirs.” Jopson has reappeared, looking concerned. “Something’s happened in the mess. They’ve requested a doctor.”

MacDonald is already halfway out of his chair. Dinner is almost over, anyway. Edward pushes his own chair back. “I’ll come with you, Doctor.”

“It’s Young, Sirs,” Mister Male says as he leads them down. “He started coughing blood all over the dinner table. The men have tried to keep him from choking on it, but he’s convulsing and all--”

_ Right _ , Edward thinks to himself.  _ Once more unto the breach.  _

+

He returns to the wardroom late, once David Young has been hauled back to  _ Erebus _ for Doctor Stanley to look at. Doctor MacDonald had invited him to sit in on the interviews of those who had taken dinner with Young to see if they had any symptoms or insights regarding what might have befallen the young man. 

Consumption, Doctor MacDonald had ruled as the most likely culprit. Now Edward has come to relay as much to Crozier. The wardroom is mostly abandoned. Irving has the watch, and Hodgson has an appointment to keep with Mister Blanky - a game of chess, he’d told Edward before dinner. But Crozier is still there, and so is Jopson. 

At first, Edward startles, thinking he has happened upon an intimate moment that he would do well to forget; Jopson certainly gasps like a man caught  _ in flagrante delicto  _ when he takes note of Edward’s arrival. Crozier, however, is only capable of slurred sounds, confused, hurt, and nearly slipping when Jopson loosens his grip as he looks up. The empty bottle on the table tells a story of its own. It hadn’t been there during dinner.

“Do you require help?”

Jopson stands frozen. Captain Crozier slumps against him further. A small thing like Jopson is bound to collapse under the weight of their captain. “That isn’t necessary,” Jopson claims, at last finding his voice. “It’s only--”

“It’s been a long day,” Edward says, smooth as he can. He can pretend not to have seen the captain in this state. There are plenty of excuses to make, but from the way Jopson is handling this - has this happened before? Edward cannot ask. Jopson would shut up like a clam, and he’d hate to pull rank. He doesn’t need to know, he tells himself. Crozier is still a formidable sailor and captain. His indulgences had been the subject of many hints and nudges during the functions which preceded  _ Terror’s  _ departure. He was not ignorant of such vices - and the occasional excess may easily be pardoned, may it not?

“It has been a long day, Sir,” Jopson responds, evenly. “He’s only tired.”

They are in agreement then. “I’ll take his feet, shall I?” 

It is no easy feat, manoeuvring what amounts to dead weight, even if they have only a few paces to cross. “You weren’t pleased by what was said at dinner,” Jopson says, voice strained. “I could tell.”

“I hardly heard what was said. Lost in thoughts, as it were.” Edward’s fingers are slippery with sweat. He digs them in more firmly, grappling for purchase. 

“Nothing awful, I hope?” 

“Know that I regret deeply to have to disillusion you, Jopson, but my thoughts were on a court martial,” he grunts, massaging his hands when Crozier is at last safely horizontal. 

“A court martial, Sir?”

“Nothing you need concern yourself with,” he soothes, cursing himself for his poor phrasing. He does not wish to be misunderstood, but so very often he says the wrong thing to the steward. “Memories of my old posting. She ran aground shortly before I was assigned to be her lieutenant, is all.”

“Well then,” says Jopson, sounding relieved. 

“Christ, Jopson, you’re bleeding.” Edward starts towards him when he catches sight of a cuff, dark red. 

“Captain needs his nails trimmed,” Jopson observes in a murmur. Edward’s handkerchief is held out like an offering between them, one Jopson seems reluctant to accept. 

“It will stain, Sir,” Jopson protests, cradling his bleeding wrist to his chest. “Only think of the fine cloth.”

“I’m thinking I have many more like this, Mister Jopson,” Edward sighs. “The monogram is the work of a most favoured sister. It is cheap silk, please don’t fret.” Cheap by his standards, anyway. Cut offs from bales he procured for Nellie once upon a time. He holds it out again. This time Jopson takes it, wrapping it tight around his wrist and pulling the knot secure with his teeth. 

“I hear one should not have favourites amongst siblings.”

“Have you none?” Edward wonders. 

“Siblings, Sir? Plenty.”

“Favourites, I mean.”

“I try not to, Sir.”

“Well said,” chuckles Edward. “Can I trust you to believe me when I say I did not endeavour to make Nellie my favourite?”

It is only that she is closest to Edward in age, that they have shared a childhood and tutors both. His older brothers were always quick to tease, but Nellie was quicker to comfort. They’d never teased her, mind. She was considered quite the angel by all. By the time little Margaret and Victoria were born, Edward had already gone to sea. 

“Certainly, Sir.”

“Good,” Edward says. “Then I’ll leave you to your duties.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Jopson’s voice follows him into the night. 

+

“There was talk of a bear come aboard  _ Erebus _ ,” Lieutenant Le Vesconte greets him jovially when Edward climbs on to the ship. There’d been too much to do on  _ Terror _ for him to leave with Crozier and the others. “I see now our fear was unfounded – my friend, you ought to grow more intimately acquainted with a razor.”

“Can’t hurt to have an extra layer,” Edward says as he pats himself down. He has no hope to get dry in these conditions but makes the attempt anyway. “Considering.”

“Well, you’re not wrong about that,” Le Vesconte agrees, slinging an arm around his shoulders, though not without some difficulty, “but all the same, the men will take you for a bear if you do not take care to groom your fur.” Maybe then they’d feel some hesitance regarding such bewildering displays of over-familiarity.

“Lieutenant Little!” Commander Fitzjames comes to shake his hand. “The captains are inspecting the crew at present. Your two  _ Terror _ lieutenants have gone below with them. Join us in the captain’s cabin, why don’t you? Mister Hoar has set out some delicacies to start off the meeting.”

‘Delicacies’ on  _ Erebus _ are grape juice, cheese, and ship’s biscuits. Edward is not complaining – the cheese settles nicely in a stomach cramping for something substantial. It reminds him of England, small taste though it is. His sister would often steal it from his plate when she thought he was not looking. On some occasions he did not have the heart to disillusion her of her pretensions to stealth. Other times he scolded her mightily before passing another morsel to her. She’d stuff herself, dear Nellie, whereas Edward had ever been a boy content with moderation.

“I say,” Le Vesconte complains once Mister Hoar has helped him out of his rain gear. “Grows bloody colder out there with each passing day.”

It’s a fine thing there’s no one else assembled. Sir John is not fond of swearing: it’d earn Le Vesconte a stern look of reproach, at the least.

“It’ll grow colder still,” Edward says morosely.

“I had rather thought I would grow used to it, the cold. Our bodies adjusted to the Orient with such ease, after all, and you’d never have known our bodies to be familiar with such climes growing up in England. It is rather more likely that we should have known cold like this than heat as such,” Fitzjames contributes with that slight lisp of his, nodding to himself. “But no matter. We’ll not be in the ice much longer, I wager. We can endure it, cannot we, boys?”

“Is not your shaft all bent?” Edward rasps after he has unintentionally inhaled some grape juice. “It does not sound to me like we’ll have roast pig on a beach at Christmas.”

That might have earned him a laugh from Irving, along with wistful talks of what beautiful scenery might await them should they ever be free of the ice. It might have made Hogdson chuff him in a friendly manner, teasing him for the sly, hedonistic wishes he thought he divined beneath Edward’s cold demeanour. From the two Erebites, it earns ridicule.

“Nonsense.” Le Vesconte waves his hand about, calling for more juice. “A few more weeks, at most!”

Edward says nothing –  _ has _ nothing to say – to that. He settles for a grunt before concentrating intently on picking at his cheese as the conversation continues on without him. Mister Wall salts the biscuits more than Mister Diggle, it would seem.

“My God, Little,” gasps Fitzjames some minutes later. “You truly meant that.”

Edward nods.

“Why in God’s name—”

“We are so close to the passage—”

“We won’t be,” says Edward, quietly. “Not for long, if we go on as we have.”

He chews, swallowing the dry biscuit.

“Keeping south, I mean. Surely you see that also?”

A hush falls over the cabin as they hear Sir John’s voice coming closer. He enters, bringing with him a contingent of officers.

“Ah, Lieutenant Little, come at last! Everything right with our  _ Terror _ ?”

“It was when I left her, Sir,” Edward confirms.

“And what of dear Neptune?” Lieutenant Fairholme enquires, coming to sit next to Edward as Crozier settles down to his right. They exchange a passing glance, though Captain Crozier’s speaks volumes: it is the look of a man unable to avert his eyes from imminent disaster.

“Keeps the men on their toes,” Edward answers curtly.

“Capital fellow, that dog!” Fairholme smiles. “I shall have to step in soon for a visit.”

“Hm.”

“Gentlemen,” says Sir John, silencing the conversations which have sprung up around the table, “I am sure you all know why we are gathered here. Our expedition’s advance the last two months, thanks to the graciousness of God, has been wonderfully successful. We have left Beechey Island almost three hundred and fifty miles behind us. Lookouts and our sledge scouts still report glimpses of open water far to our south and west. It may still be in our power – God willing – to reach this open water and to navigate the North-West Passage this very autumn.”

Edward keeps his eyes on the cheese rind adorning his plate. It’s not for him to speak so openly when he is not asked for an opinion. He would do well not to let show how dubious he considers Sir John’s probabilities, though he privately marvels at the confidence it takes to be so assertive. A man of God, he supposes, can rest easy in the knowledge that his fate is determined already.

“But the ice to our west is increasing, I understand, in both thickness and frequency. Mister Gregory reports that  _ Erebus _ ’s main shaft has been damaged by ice and that although we can make headway under steam, the flagship’s effectiveness has been compromised. Our coal supplies are dwindling. Another winter will soon be upon us. In other words, gentlemen, we must decide today what our course of action and direction shall be. I think it is not unfair to say that the success or failure of our expedition shall be determined by what we decide here.”

Silence reigns in Sir John’s wake. Edward imagines it is not unique to him, to feel out of his depth when asked to suggest something so momentous as was just asked of them to a man ranking so far above him. It takes him back to his volunteer days, when he’d been unable to meet even a lieutenant’s eye. He’s not so far gone from such shyness as he might have thought, it would appear.

“Well, perhaps it would be helpful, before we venture opinions and open discussion, to hear from—"

“ _ How _ badly compromised?” asks Crozier, at last, nipping another long-winded speech in the bud.

“She can still pull two knots, maybe three, with the boiler full up,” says Mister Gregory, fingers clamped tightly around his cap.

“Half-power, more or less,” Crozier posits.

“Yes,” exhales Gregory, sounding relieved. “Not for long, mind.”

Mister Reid picks up the thread the engineer has laid out. “Nights – them few hours of darkness we have what’s called nights up here – we cut through pancake ice, that’s like what we been seeing the last week as the sea’s always on the verge of freezing, but that ain’t no real problem either.”

Mister Blanky had explained as much during the last watch, laughing around his pipe and gesturing wildly, his eyes full of admiration for the magnificent beast that was the ice all around them. He holds himself quiet now, a picture of stillness that is at odds with the vitality that always seems to spill from him like an overturned bottle on a tavern floor. 

“We’ve been able to stay away from the young ice along the shores – that’s more serious stuff. Behind that’s the fast ice that’ll tear the hull off even a ship as reinforced as this here and  _ Terror _ in the lead. But as I say, we stayed away from fast ice…so far.”

_ Erebus _ ’ ice master clears his throat before he continues.

“So with the moving ice, Sir John and your honours, we ain’t had much problem with the brash ice and thicker drift ice, and the bergy bits – them little bergs what broke off from the real bergs – we’ve been able to avoid them because of the wide leads and open water we’ve been able to find. But all that’s coming to an end, Sirs. What with the nights getting longer, the pancake ice is always there now, and we’re running into more and more of them growlers and hummocky flows. And it’s the hummocky flows that’s got Mr. Blanky and me worried.”

Sir John considers his cup of juice. “Why is that, Mister Reid?”

“It’s the snow, Sir John,” says Reid. “The deep snow atop ‘em, Sir, and the tidemarks on the side. Such always signifies old pack ice ahead, Sir, real screwed pack, and that’s where we get frozen in, you see. And as far as we can see or sledge ahead, Sirs, it’s all pack ice, except for the possible glint of open water way down south of King William Land.”

“But then it isn’t but another two hundred miles from King William land until we can pick up the western charts and draw in this final piece of the puzzle once and for all,” Sir John smiles as he speaks.

There is something hungry in the way Fitzjames cheers. “Hear, hear!”

It is done with the same confidence he’d shown earlier.  _ You’re not listening, Commander _ , he wants to say. Doesn’t. Adding  _ with all due respect, Sir _ , won’t avert the accusation of insubordination that would follow such cheek.

“Our situation,” Crozier begins, weary, “is more dire than you may understand.”

“A dramatic opening shot,” Fitzjames scoffs.

“With all due respect, sirs,” Mister Blanky says now, not half so hesitant as Mister Reid. “This isn’t no pancake ice or sludge ice, gentlemen, it’s the pack. Comin’ down from the northwest. A series of giant glaciers – calving bergs and freezing the sea for hundreds of miles as it flows south. Always been there. We’ve been protected from it, is all.”

“Protected by what?” asks Lieutenant Gore. He sets down his biscuit, curious.

“By all the islands to our west as we’ve come south, Graham,” Crozier answers. He looks to Sir John and continues. “You are proposing we cross the pack, in September. Even with leads, it could take us weeks of picking our way through it. We may not have weeks.”

“Oh?” Fairholme, too, has dropped the biscuit he’d been nibbling on.

“Just as we discovered a year ago that Cornwallis Land was an island, we know now that Prince of Wales Land is really Prince of Wales Island. The bulk of it has been blocking the full force of the ice stream until we came out of Peel Sound. It’s being forced south between whatever islands are up there to our northwest, possibly all the way to the mainland. Whatever open water is down there along the coast to the south won’t last long - nor will we, if we forge ahead and try to winter out here in the open pack ice.”

“That is one opinion,” claims Sir John, raising his eyebrows.

Crozier ignores the slight, turning instead to Lt. Gore. “You’ve seen the sun dogs, Graham? How many have there been now?”

“Three,” Graham reports.

Crozier raps the table with his knuckles. His lip twitches. From where he is seated, Edward can see the hand that isn’t forcibly resting on the table begin to shake. “It’s already a colder year than last.”

“Sir John,” Fitzjames speaks up, face thoughtful. “I agree with Captain Crozier that to be caught out in the pack ice we’re facing would be unfortunate—”

“Unfortunate,” Crozier hisses. “We could be forced against the shore and crushed to atoms!”

“—Yes, thank you, Francis, but I do not believe that will be our fate, should we forge on. It is imperative that we get as far south as we can. At the very least, we know from Sir John’s earlier expeditions overland that the water tends to stay open much later near the coast because of the warmer waters coming in from the rivers.”

“And if we don’t reach open water or the coast by going southwest?” Captain Crozier asks, softly.

Edward can imagine it. He thinks of the wreck of the  _ Fury _ , lying abandoned on the shale miles and miles from here, pushed up pressure ridges until at last the ice won. And what of the  _ Hecla _ ? She’d hardly fared better.  _ Terror  _ herself had had to be towed home once. This is a gamble. He closes his eyes, tightly. A damned gamble, and with so many lives at stake!  _ You’re running her too hot. Get back!  _ His own voice comes back to him, loud and desperate, intrusive.  _ Get back. For God’s sake, get out of the way!  _

“At least we’ll be closer to our goal come the thaw next spring.”

“Commander Fitzjames, Sir, with all due respect--” Edward begins, intending to push through the constricting fear that’s wrapped itself around his chest. He is swiftly interrupted by Sir John.

“So what would you propose instead?”

Crozier shakes his head and flexes his right hand a couple of times before he deigns to answer. “Right now we can as easily sail to the east of King William Land as to the west – more easily, since we know from our lookouts and scouts that there is still ample open water to the east.”

“Francis,” says Sir John, his voice incredulous. “That would be a dead end. We would be sheltered by the peninsula, yes, but frozen in hundreds of miles east of here in a long bay that may not thaw next spring.”

“Unless,” continues Crozier, looking around the table. Edward meets his gaze steadily, hoping to offer some reassurance. “Unless King William Land is also an island. In which case we would have the same protection from the pack ice flowing from the northwest that Prince of Wales Island has been giving us the past month of travel.”

“You believe in the theories of that eccentric Doctor King,” says Le Vesconte softly.

“No, I do not subscribe to all he says, only, Edward, would you—?”

Edward would. “It is probable,” he says as he rises, pointing at the maps, “that the open water on the east will extend almost to the coast. We can sail west along the warmer waters for weeks, maybe.”

“Yes, but east would add miles. We might not be out this year after all,” Sir John counters.

“Sir—” Edward clears his throat. “That may be the case no matter where we set our course, now that  _ Erebus _ is lame.” Even at full capacity, should they keep south: winter will be upon them all too soon.

“If we consolidate all our coal on the less-damaged ship, we’d have enough to go for broke and get east of King William Land, possibly around it, before winter,” Crozier suggests seemingly out of the blue. Edward’s not heard this theory before, not in all the conversations they’ve had. That smarts a little, but of course the captain is no more obligated to reveal all to his second now than he was when they set out, only Edward had come to believe they had an understanding of sorts. 

Sir John leans back in his chair; it creaks. Crozier seeks to convince him still. “It’s our best and probably only chance.”

“Yes,” Mister Blanky agrees. “We should go for broke.”

“Abandon  _ Erebus _ , is that what you’re saying?”

“If it is a dead end, as you fear,” Crozier allows, “we can overwinter in complete safety, out of the pack.”

Fitzjames nods, understanding. “We could retrace our steps come the spring.”

“Tired of one another, no doubt,” concedes Crozier, “but  _ alive _ .”

Into the silence,  _ Terror’s  _ engineer – James Thompson – speaks, “Since the issue of the ship’s coal reserves has been brought up, I would like to mention that we are very, very close to reaching – and I mean this quite literally – the point of no return in terms of our fuel. We are now just above fifty percent of our coal remaining…less than two weeks of normal steaming, but only days’ worth of trying to force the ice as we have in our path due south.”

“We could always send a party ashore to cut trees for firewood,” Edward says, aware he sounds much too flippant considering the circumstances.

For a minute every man in the room except Sir John laughs. From the silence afterwards, Crozier renews his suit. “Your own engineer, Mister Gregory here, has told us that the main shaft cannot be repaired, nor retracted any longer, outside of a dry dock. Certainly not in the pack. It will only get worse from here if we do not--”

“You would have us  _ abandon  _ the flagship?” Sir John’s eyes have gone wide, comically so. “Abandon  _ Erebus _ ?”

“If we are to have a chance at completing the passage this year rather than next, yes,” Crozier maintains.

“That is an interesting speculation,” Sir John says after he has twiddled with his thumbs for some time. “But of course we will not be abandoning  _ Erebus, _ nor  _ Terror _ , should she suffer some minor misfortune. We are almost there, gentlemen, and we will get there by keeping south. I can feel it.”

“Hear me, John,” Crozier sighs.

“Conditions would be very cramped aboard  _ Terror _ ,” Fitzjames says, giving the proposition more serious consideration than the expedition’s commander.

“Not unbearably so—”

“I see, however, some merit to this eastward course you have suggested, Francis.”

Sir John turns to look at  _ Erebus _ ’ second, blinking slowly.

“We are amply provisioned,” Gore considers. “Another winter would not be our end as surely as the pack might, if I have understood our ice masters correctly.”

“It should give us the opportunity to try our hand at hunting again,” Lt. Le Vesconte laughs. “Give a better showing than we did at Beechey. Your marines certainly made a sport of ours – it begs a retry.”

“Well,” Sir John sputters, indignant. “What am I to make of that?”

He is met with silence.

“East, then,” he relents, sounding displeased. “Never let it be said that I do not heed advice, even when it is given so bitterly. Francis, James, you may go tell your crews of our decision. Now, if you will all excuse me, gentlemen.”

“East,” Edward whispers to himself, once Sir John has left them. It feels like a victory. 

“We’ve not won much of anything, yet,” Crozier sighs, to his left. “You’ll do well to prepare yourself for a very long winter, Edward


	16. Peglar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The posting schedule has been upset by these Pandemic Times a bit. Let's reminisce about a pandemic that sounded much cooler. The White Death.

#  **Chapter Sixteen - Peglar**

_ September 1846 - On what has not yet been officially named Ross Strait, due east _

Harry is cleaning under his nails when Lieutenant Gore comes below, laughing as he notices the bustle of the lower deck. That alone is a most unusual sight on  _ Terror _ . Mister Hornby accompanies him, and they make straight for where Sergeant Tozer sits at cards with Mister Armitage and Private Heather. 

“You’ll take Evans, Manson, and Mister Hickey with you,” Hornby orders. “The caulker’s mate has the most duty owing. I leave it to your discretion to see it dispensed with.”

“Yes, Sir,” says Tozer, spitting a wad of tobacco into Private Heather’s repurposed cup.

“They can have a bit of brandy for their troubles,” says the lieutenant. “If Mister Armitage would be kind enough to pour it for them.” 

“You’re speaking into the wrong ear, Sir,” Private Heather counsels. “He can’t hear you well from that side.” 

“Heard him well enough,” Armitage mutters. “Reckon they can hear your voice up the masts, Sir. Don’t trouble yourself on my account.” 

“Well, better I know,” Gore decides. “That should save us from future awkwardness, yes?”

“Aye.” Sergeant Tozer nods. “Sirs.”

“You are to make a cairn, Sergeant,” Lieutenant Gore instructs further. “Do you know what that is?” 

“Right enough.”

“Good. I’ll give you a note to cache shortly.” Gore straightens, rubbing his hands as if to prepare for the cold he is soon to face once more. “Merely add your signature once you’ve built it.”

“Sirs.” Tozer clears his throat, nodding.

“Young’s dead, in case you were wondering,” Reuben whispers, having appeared at his shoulder while Harry was eavesdropping like a naughty schoolboy. Harry had been wondering, come to that. Trust Reuben to have the first word of it. “Died screaming and seizing in the night. They’re off to bury him.”

“Poor Young,” sighs Harry, feeling the absurd urge to cross himself. Rose always used to do that, but Harry’s no catholic. It’s the sole remnant of a hundred little habits he picked up from her and then abandoned in the years after her death. 

“Questionable wisdom in sending him over to  _ Erebus _ in his condition, isn’t there?”

“We don’t know that,” Harry says. “Coughing up blood like that, he might have died just the same on  _ Terror _ .”

“Aye,” Reuben hisses, “but he would’ve died surrounded by friends. Not all alone with that knob Stanley. Do you know I hear he never went to medical school—?” 

“Mind yourself,” Harry warns softly. 

“Have to mind myself a lot, lately.” Reuben is not the only one. Discontent is brewing quicker than Harry is used to on such voyages. Crispe has taken to glowering at the back of any officer that comes below. No amount of friendly smacks ‘round the head have worked to restore a neutral expression. 

“Age is supposed to make you wiser, Reuben, not shoot off at the mouth.”

“Trust me to defy expectations, eh?” He runs a hand through his hair. Getting long, Harry notes. Could probably tie it at the nape if he had some cord. “You’re right, Harry. Course you are.”

+

Crozier, when he addresses the assembled men, is curt as ever. Given the cold, they are all grateful. “I have set a course that will take us east of King William Land.”

Even though he only had rare occasions to listen to Sir John’s announcements, Harry thinks he already prefers Crozier’s style of speech. There is something infectious about Sir John’s conviction, his optimism, aye, but there is also something reassuring in the decisiveness of Captain Crozier. Their course is set, and he has faith in that decision, rather than in Providence. 

“Now,” Crozier says, coming closer to sighing in dismay than is strictly permissible, “Lieutenant Irving will read to you.”

Harry bites down the grin that threatens to fight its way to the surface when several men groan, subtly as they can. He doesn’t mind the sermons: Harry has always enjoyed being read to; the source material does not matter as much as the voice, and Lieutenant Irving’s slight lilt does not grate a man’s ears until they bleed. 

“ Ask, and it shall be given you;  _ seek, and you shall find; _ knock, and it shall be opened to you: For every one that asks receives; and he that seeks finds; and to him that knocks it shall be opened…”

From the corner of his eye Harry can see Sergeant Tozer climbing  _ Terror’s _ ladder, face pulled into a frown of distaste. Only a few steps behind him, Mister Hickey looks rather more cheerful. That infernal grimace of the man’s smile widens as he accepts a short glass of brandy from Armitage before the newly arrived fold smoothly into the ranks of devout listeners. Tozer lingers near the steward, helping himself to a second glass of brandy before Evans makes it up the ladder. Armitage indulges him -- God knows why, when he’s the one who has to answer for the stores - but perhaps Gore was fairly generous or perhaps Armitage has already watered down the brandy. And perhaps Harry should just look away and try to accept the word of God into his heart.

“God grants us many things in life, and so He shall grant us this passage!”

The articles are read quickly once Irving has yielded his position on top of the crate with a strong  _ amen _ that  _ Terror’s _ crew echoes with very varied enthusiasm. Lieutenant Little makes quick work of it without stuttering even once at some of the more heinous crimes the Admiralty forbids. He later hears that Sir John talked for twenty whole minutes. 

+

“Evenin’, Mister Peglar.” Evans’ head pokes over the edge of the crow’s nest. “Are you wanting for company?” Narrow as it is up here, they still manage. Legs are always dangling off when you sit down, so you gotta find something to hold onto, but there’s enough rope around. Harry makes sure of that every day. “Thought you’d be watching the ice.”

“Not just now, Thom,” Harry points out, gesturing around them. “Clouds -- can’t see a thing. Storm coming, I suppose.”

“Mister Blanky’s down there,” Evans explains. “He’s asking for a report.”

“I’ll go down soon,” Harry sighs. “Can’t hear myself think on deck.”

“Awfully loud,” Evans agrees. “Not like up here. Wind’s a right howler, but you’re alone with your thoughts, I guess, if that’s what you want.”

“Everything sorted, Boy?” Evans stares past Harry for a good while before he shakes his head. It appears to Harry as though he does not want to own up to feeling uneasy - and why would he? He’s already the subject of enough ridicule as a ship’s boy. “This about Young?” The boy nods, short and choppy. “Something happen on shore?”

Now Evans’ eyes snap to his, and he wrings another nod from himself. “The -- the -- the top of the coffin came undone, like, while we was lowerin’ him down. David was all cut up, looking fresh from the butcher’s.”

Awful sight, autopsies -- or so Harry imagines. He’s never been present to see a cadaver cut open. Seen his fair share of gore and then some, though. The neighbor’s boy went under a carthorse when Harry was five. Won’t ever forget that sight, even after he’s seen grown men fall to each other’s blades. It’s the helplessness of it all. A dead man can defend his integrity about as well as a child. “I’m sure they had good reason to do it.”

“Maybe.” Evans sounds dubious, pulling his arms tighter around himself. “But David were afraid of that, after he heard what they did with Tom Hartnell’s brother. Nightmares about it for days even after Hartnell came over to us.”

“His soul knows rest now.”

“I hope he didn’t feel it,” Evans says, into the cold air. The boy takes a deep breath, then continues. “Doctor MacDonald told me, when I had my health checked out, that the natives here think the body can still feel things once it’s -- well, once it’s dead. And I kept thinking, what if he’s alone now? What if we’ve left him all alone?”

“Don’t suppose there’s any way for us to know,” Harry reflects, pulling his hat off to scratch at his scalp. It’s a familiar itch - the lice have taken much too long to get him on this voyage already. He’ll see about shearing his hair off. Getting too long anyway. 

“Made me think, is all.” Evans pulls his woolen scarf tighter about his shoulders, spooling one end around his hand. “If he’s cold or warm now, in his coffin. If part of him is in heaven or in the earth. Or some of both, you know? If he’d want us to get him out.” He glances at Harry, then looks down swiftly. “Sorry, Mister Peglar. Stupid of me, feeling alone on a ship of some sixty friends.”

“Not at all,” Harry smiles. He remembers being eighteen quite well. He’s still filled with questions. Some different, some the same. The matter of life after death has not been settled definitively in his head either. He doubts any man in the world has figured it out to his own satisfaction. “You might find it eases your mind to talk to Lieutenant Irving about such matters.”

Evans looks guilty now. “I know we ought to find solace in scripture, Mister Peglar. And I try to - read the gospel, I have. Most of it, at least. But I don’t understand what it’s trying to tell me half the time.”

“You’re certainly not alone in that,” Harry assures him. “It is a difficult book. We’re lucky enough we live to hear it in English.”

Evans nods distractedly. 

“Gives us the chance to form our own opinions, connect with it in a personal manner.”

“Suppose so,” Evans says. 

“Something else on your mind?”

“I’m meant to report to Lieutenant Little at the next bell,” Evans tells him. He produces a length of rope from his coat, twists it around his elbow. The boy doesn’t even have to look at it anymore as he rolls it up, he’s become quite practiced. “Said I’m supposed to show him a new knot I’ve learned, but my thoughts kept getting distracted, with… with what I’ve just told you, Mister Peglar. Afraid I’ve nothing to show him now.” Evans frowns. “He’ll be disappointed, I know.”

Harry holds out his hand. “Anyone show you a clove hitch, yet?”

“No, Mister Peglar, but I’ve seen some around the ship.”

Harry nods. “You have to be careful when you only pull on one end. It can come undone like that, but it’s a good one. Never have to fear that it’ll clamp…”

+

The clouds have cleared by the time Harry finds his way back to the solid wood of Terror’s deck. Evans scarpered off to report to Lt. Little some minutes ago, and he has no excuse to be alone with his thoughts for any longer. 

“All fair weather due east, eh Mister Peglar?”

“Not all,” Harry grumbles. More clouds coming their way. They’ll be pelted with rain, perhaps with hail, for some time. “Ice at our bow isn’t giving way, neither.”

“Aye,” Blanky agrees. “Closing up behind us.”

It seems to Harry a race against time, against being frozen in. Doesn’t help that  _ Erebus’ _ propeller is bent to shit, according to skeptical voices in the mess. 

“Nothin’ we can do but wait for it to catch us, now.” Blanky sounds thoughtful but unafraid. And why would he? He’s been frozen in so often, he must have come to expect it by now. “No fancy trick of the sails will help us here. Not like all the pirates you’ve tilted with, the ice, eh?”

Harry chuckles. “Lieutenant Hodgson has been spinning you a fine yarn, I suppose.”

“He has a talent for it,” Blanky grins. “Makes a man curious, that does.”

They walk a few steps more along the deck before Harry gathers the courage to say, “I wonder if it would not have been better to pack us all onto  _ Terror _ . Keep close, and all that.”

Blanky stares at him as though he’s grown a second head. 

He’s gone too far, Harry thinks. Easy to forget that Mister Blanky is one of the officers. Insolent of Harry, to question the decisions made by command. “Reckon we’d have saved coal, is all. More men make more heat.”

Now he laughs. A close brush with the lash, Harry supposes. Just as well, it should teach him to watch his mouth, that sudden drop he’d just felt in his stomach -- practice what he preaches to the men on a daily basis. “That’s the kind of heat that invites a court-martial, I tell you.” Mister Blanky shakes his head. “Would do us good, aye. Would have done us good, Mister Peglar. Bit too late now though, eh?”

“Suppose so,” Harry murmurs. Blanky begins packing a pipe, settling against the gunwale. 

“Why do you keep returning to the ice, Mister Blanky?”

“Eh?”

“One hears tales, is all. Makes my skin crawl, some of the things rumored to have happened here. Don’t think I’m likely to ever return north, is all.”

Mister Blanky chuckles, taking a deep inhale after finally managing to light his pipe. “I’m one of the few men whose wife don’t want him dead. Need to get that thrill elsewhere.” Harry frowns, and after another drag Mister Blanky’s voice changes to a more serious note. “I’ve always liked a challenge, me. And that’s part of it, aye, at least the first few times. Then you start to feel as though you leave a part of yourself behind out here. Gotta return, either to find it or to feel like yourself again. Don’t feel quite whole in old England, God love her.”

Harry looks him over, skeptical. Mister Blanky still has all of his parts, far as he knows. 

Blanky grins. “Metaphorically speaking, Mister Peglar. Trust you know what I meant by that. You’re a very literary man, aren’t you?” He doesn’t wait for Harry’s answer. “Can only hope it stays that way, eh?” Then he raps twice on the side of the ship. Men and their superstitions. “But as with most things, can’t do nowt but wait.”

Mister Blanky claps Harry on the shoulder, jostles him a bit. “Unless you’ve got some secret sail-trick up yours. Keen to hear summat to bring us out of here, if you do.”

+

Hanging up the hammocks for the night is the work of a minute for practised hands. Today, rambunctiousness abounds, and so far, he seems to be the only one abed. He’s tired to the bones, but whether or not he gets any sleep tonight is highly dependent on whether or not they’ll shut up.

“Give us a hand, Kinnaird,” Crispe is saying, beckoning the man over. “Can’t use mine for fuck-all just now.”

“Aye, but that’s all the help you’ll see from my hand.” Kinnaird steals Crispe’s cap, shoving the man’s head back with the flat of his hand when he tries to chase after him. The cap lands in Lawrence’s hand, who hides it swiftly behind his back as Crispe looks around, trying to retrieve it.

“Wouldn’t know what to do with my girth anyway, Kinnaird,” he sniffs, offended. “Give it back.”

“That why you’re suffering from limp-wrist disease, eh, Crispe?”

Low-hanging fruit, maybe, but nonetheless it makes for laughter.

“Should have long been back in Oahu, now,” Lawrence grumbles as he pulls the cap back over Crispe’s head. His voice turns dreamy. “Island girls are a cure-all, I tell you.”

“If they can overlook your ugly mug, aye,” grins Evans, ducking out of the way like a little weasel. “Have to get them to like you first, Lawrence.”

“See if I don’t gut you for that, boy,” threatens Lawrence, half-hearted. He rolls his shoulders, straightens. “I’m only sayin’ what we’re all thinking, lads. Been in the ice too long, all of us. Should have been months in the pacific by this time.”

“Ice is unpredictable,” shrugs Leys. “We’re not all desperate pull-offs, mind. My wrist’s fine.”

“Crispe’s been tugging himself off all his life, Davey,” Lawrence says, rolling his eyes. “That’s pathetic, aye, but a practised hand don’t hurt like this.”

“I resent that,” Crispe hisses. 

“And I resent havin’ to listen to you grope yourself at night, but do I complain?”

“Yeah, you do. Whole fuckin’ lot of complaining.”

Harry sighs and turns away. John would have some choice words about man’s obsession with other men’s pricks, he’s sure. Oh, he’d cache it in lofty comparisons to some ancient generals, sure, but it’d make for better conversation than this. There’d be a twinkle in John’s eye all the while. 

+

Mainmast posting is abandoned, but Harry can see Lieutenant Irving returning from conferring with the men posted near the stern when he is called up for middle watch. “Mister Peglar.”

“Lieutenant Irving.”

“How does she sit?”

“As you’d expect, Sir,” he grins. “In the ice.”

“Same as yesterday, then,” Irving nods. Moments later his grave demeanour slips into something friendlier.

“Same as tomorrow, I expect,” Harry muses.

“Could save ourselves the trouble of reporting it every night.”

“Good to be diligent, nonetheless.” The lieutenant nods again. “Have you picked out a passage for Sunday yet, Lieutenant?”

The officer looks rather startled at the question. Surprise colours his features – much too youthful for the age he is rumoured to be – but it does not give the appearance of being unpleasant. “I have not,” he says. “Though I had considered Ecclesiastes – Captain Crozier deemed it too depressing.”

Which is a thorough condemnation, Harry supposes. “ _ For the living know that they will die, but the dead know nothing _ .” Harry tries to remember some of the book. Sounds to him just the kind of thing to guide their captain, but what does he know, really?

“I did not know you knew your scripture so well, Mister Peglar.”

“Nothing to do between watches but read, Lieutenant. We’ve no wind to use.” Harry shrugs. Hopefully, that will change soon. Irving gives him a look as to suggest that plenty of the men find other ways to fill their free time and part of the time that should be dedicated to duty, too. “Be even less for me to do once we’ll take the masts down again.”

Irving smiles, looking out to sea. Harry expects they’re thinking much of the same just now. How long until the ice catches them? Though Irving has the advantage, he supposes, being part of command and all, of knowing how they’ll proceed. Passage to the Pacific in 1846 seems wildly out of reach to Harry, if  _ Terror _ is not granted a sudden spell of luck.

“Perhaps we will not have to.”

“Pray that we don’t, Lieutenant,” Harry grins. “Or soon I’ll quote the book entire at you.”

By eight bells, Harry has damn near talked himself dry. Scripture is not his preferred topic, but these are desperate times. He’s glad for any five minutes that aren’t laced with complaints. The hulking shape of Lieutenant Little climbs the ladder. Would be hard to recognize the man, with his jumper pulled all the way up to his whiskers and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck for good measure, if Harry hadn’t – much like everybody else on  _ Terror _ – learned to recognize the officers and men alike by the homemade layers they add to what strictly passes for naval dress.

“I’m off for tea, then.”

“I have great expectations for your Sunday choice, Sir.”

“Good night, Mister Peglar.”

Lieutenant Little has a nod to offer him as well, though the whole greeting looks rather comical, covered as they all are. “I thought you to have the middle watch, Mister Peglar,” the lieutenant rasps, after ten minutes pass in silence that Harry would perjure himself in describing as comfortable.

“Morning watch oversleeps the most, Sir,” Harry excuses. “Happens to the best of us, sometimes. Sure he won’t be long.”

Bates and Sinclair are already stumbling up the ladder, yawning and nudging one another into appropriate wakefulness. By the time they greet Kinnaird and Lawrence at the mizzenmast, they’re laughing under their breaths, wide awake and giddy. No one wants to follow in poor Alex Bailey’s footsteps and court the lash. Those two mean everyone’s accounted for, except whoever’s to relieve Harry.

“Hm.”

The lieutenant throws him a glance that might be pitying, but Harry doesn’t mind. Sleep’s been hard to find out here, even for someone as quick to doze as Harry usually is. No telling if he’d have gotten rest, even had he had the whole night at his leisure.

Frankly, Little doesn’t look as though he’s gotten much rest, and he went below just after second dog watch. “Your men doing all right?”

“Save for a bit of grumbling about the cold and the like, yes,” Harry reports.

“Hm.” Little turns bodily to look at him. “Do you suppose two hour watches would serve them better?”

“Be on deck shorter,” Harry considers, “but more often. Can only say it’d please me better, sir.”

As Little turns away, Harry allows himself a more thorough look at his profile. Had nearly bowled him over to have recognized the man at first now the realization has long ceased to be of interest. He’d spent a good week or so, when they were near Greenhithe, wondering where he’d seen the man before. They’d never served together, after all.

Not so long ago, it later turned out. Course, it’s been long now, but it hadn’t then. Bit over a month before they were set to depart – so late March, after that whole nasty delay with the cans – Harry had set out from his meagre lodgings and taken an extensive stroll towards Regent’s Park in the cover of darkness.

At first, when Harry had crossed paths with such a well-dressed gentleman, his instincts had been to duck away. He hadn’t even reached the park yet: there was no telling what the man might’ve been looking for.

But he had watched him and proceeded to see the lieutenant duck into a house where Harry would have been asked to leave two-months’ salary just for a grope. Course, he’d never mention that, wouldn’t as much as allude to it, but the thought hasn’t quite left him be neither. Clad in uniform, standing at Crozier’s flank like a cast figure of one of those Romans John is so fond of, it had taken Harry a while to put two and two together.

He’s about to try for a conversation – short of stamping his foot, which he has been doing, and moving about, which he has also been doing, distraction’s the only thing left for warding off the cold – when Golding comes running on deck, arms flailing as he struggles for balance. Snowed a bit earlier. Slippery. “He’s collapsed, McDonald has, just like Young!”

“Doctor MacDonald?”

“No, sir,” Golding clarifies, “the quartermaster.”

Harry scowls.

“I’m to relieve you of the watch, Mister Peglar.”

“Without so much as a cap to protect your head?” Harry scoffs. “We’ll have to take your ears off for breakfast.”

Golding touches his hair, embarrassed. It’s most probable he just forgot in his haste. Not even a ship’s boy would willingly brave the cold without ample protection.

Death, it seems, looms all around them.  _ Oh, my dear John, _ he thinks,  _ off I go to sleep, perchance to forget. _

He pulls his own cap off and over the boy’s head.

“Be sure to give it back.” 


	17. MacDonald

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Crisis!

#  **Chapter Seventeen - MacDonald**

_ October-December 1846 - Southwest of King William Island _

When Crozier can pencil King William Island into the map, it feels like a triumph amongst all the setbacks of this journey. Despite the persistent darkness, Alexander happily goes on deck to breathe in the desperately cold air of the arctic. 

Mister Blanky has had much of the same idea. Alexander finds him by the stern, smoking his pipe as he always does when he stares out at the ice - that is to say, with relish. 

“Won’t be long now,” Alexander says by way of announcing his presence. Blanky grins at him over his shoulder, then goes back to staring. “I expect we would do well to look for some inlet to overwinter.”

“We would have done well to load the men onto  _ Terror _ ,” Blanky laughs. “With  _ Erebus _ as tribute the ice could not deny us. As things are, I’m not so sure.”

He takes a deep drag and continues. “Now, you and I know that. Some of the men with more than two thoughts to rub together who’ve never even been to the arctic know that. Boggles the mind why some with the prestige of experience can’t figure the same.”

“It is only hubris,” Alexander sighs. “Pride which must go before the fall.” 

“Enough of that here to see us through many winters, aye,” Blanky bristles. 

“If only we could make a meal of it,” Alexander chuckles. 

“How fares our other McDonald?”

“Steady,” Alexander reports, “for now. I’m afraid there isn’t much Doctor Peddie or myself can do to help him.”

“Consumptive?”

“That is our best guess,” Alexander confirms. “In these parts, of course, the definite diagnosis can only be made post-mortem.”

“Odds are you’ll have a definite diagnosis within the week.”

Sometimes, Alexander forgets just how crass of a man Mister Blanky can be, as if the ice has worn away his care for politeness as well as some of his sanity. They could hardly meet with a finer ice-master, he’ll readily admit it, but there’s a touch of madness to Blanky that confounds the mind. 

“Have you seen our captain much recently?”

“Not as much as I’d like, though Francis hardly makes for a nice view these days,” Blanky admits. “Keeps to his cabin now, most of the time. Jopson tells me he’s doing magnetic studies.”

“He might be.”

“Aye, and I might be a dancin’ monkey, come to that,” Blanky laughs. “He’s holdin’ it together, Francis is. Near thing though. Grown two fingers on his right hand, he has. We might amputate - but at what cost?”

“We might talk--”

“Doctor,” Blanky sighs, wearily, “in all your years of experience, have you ever met a man that were grateful you told him to go easy on the drink?”

+

_ 14th December 1846 _

Lieutenant Little, though he is not a man given to much conversation, is very generous. Alexander had not been aware that lieutenants brought their own stores aboard, but somehow, Little had brought along two dozen bottles of very fine distillation and neglected -- for one and a half years now! -- to open a single one of them, even though he has already passed a birthday in the ice. 

“To our generous sponsor! To 35!” Lieutenant Hodgson is toasting him. “May you grow more handsome every year.”

“I’ll need to grow very old then, won’t I, George? To keep up with you--” 

“Ah!” Hodgson laughs. Downing his drink, he jumps down from the table, careful not to disturb the maps. “I had Jopson prepare something for you, my good man. Where is he?”

“Just through here, Sir,” Jopson’s clear-cut voice rings out behind the curtain. 

“Very good.” Hodgson claps his hands together. “Can we trust our first lieutenant to keep his eyes closed so as not to spoil the surprise?”

“Upon my solemn honour, George.” Little places a hand over his heart, indulgent. There is something pleased to his mien that leads Alexander to wonder if, perhaps, Lieutenant Little is rather a different man when not at sea. Perhaps, on land, he finds occasion to smile. 

“Edward,” Crozier barks. He sounds drunk, but then, most in the room are no longer in full control of their faculties. “You are not to open your eyes until I say so. That is an order.”

Little dutifully closes his eyes. Lieutenant Irving shepherds Jopson past the curtain -- only now does Alexander see that the steward’s hands are quite full. “Now, my dear fellow, it is not quite what you hankered for,” Hodgson tells him, “but you understand we’re not exactly spoilt for choice here.”

“Open!”

Lieutenant Little’s face softens, just a smidge, when he sees what has been presented to him. “Mister Diggle has outdone himself,” he muses, glancing around the room. “I -- thank you, all of you. This can’t have been an easy feat.”

“Nonsense, Edward, nonsense!” Irving protests. “It was only the small matter of procuring sugar which bedeviled us for days -- strawberry preserves we had in spades -- but as it turns out, our captain has more set aside than we expected, and not all of it bad!”

“Oh, do go on and try it,” Hodgson prods. “Or I shall have to quite literally rub it in your face.”

Lieutenant Little declares the little tarts better than strawberries and cream, to the general delight of the room, before, it seems, he grows embarrassed by having all the attention, and rather elegantly poses a question that sends Lieutenant Hodgson off on a twenty-minute excursion to the east of ages past. He leans back, and Alexander cannot pretend he has ever seen the man look quite so content. More requests for stories follow, and one after the other, they spin their tales. Alexander recounts first meeting  Eenoolooapik. “--a singular young man, yes. It was he who made me wish to study the native language. Very fine fellow, oh, we had much to learn from him.”

“Do you suppose,” Irving hiccups, “Doctor, that we will encounter the Inuit?”

“We might,” Alexander allows. If it is later rather than sooner before they may leave the ice, they may even have to go looking for them. “I am sure you would find much to discuss, John.”

“I should like to read your account, Doctor,” Little says, serious. 

“I’m afraid it’s over on  _ Erebus _ . Our Mister Goodsir has taken an interest. I’m not sure he’ll ever return it.”

“Hm.”

“And now,” Alexander finishes, “I believe it is our captain’s turn to find a tale to regale.”

“Go on, Frank, tell ‘em -- oh, tell them about your games of dress-up. I love that story, I do.”

Captain Crozier rubs his eyes and shakes his head, though his protest is feeble, and Mister Blanky need not do much prodding to induce him to speak. 

“Once,” he starts, blinking rapidly as he does, “when I was only a midshipman on the  _ Fury _ , and we were sailing -- some, some many miles from where we are now, near Somerset beach, in fact -- not yet frozen in, as we would and will be. Soon. Sir James Clark Ross -- though he was only  _ Jeames _ , then -- and myself got it into our head to try and hunt for beluga whales, as we had spotted some for the first time a few days beforehand…”

The bells interrupt the captain. Irving jumps from his chair, nearly upsetting his tea. “My apologies,” he says, “but I shan’t leave Hornby shivering longer than he must, when I’ve been so thoroughly warmed all evening.”

“--and, in the end, inexperienced as I was, the whole misadventure ended with a face full of blubber, which, as you may imagine, served as material for jokes that would survive well into my second trip north, disastrous and near-fatal as it was. Do you remember the misery of  _ Fury _ beach with Sir John Ross, Thomas? All of it?” Crozier smiles to himself. “Then by my third, I suppose, I ranked too high for such jokes amongst the men. ”

Hodgson smiles, but he, too, yawns and stretches. “If I’m to relieve our John from the cold in four hours, I’d better sober up some, or I’ll miss the beluga whales.”

Crozier shakes his head, softly, “Too late in the year for that, George. We’re  _ much _ too late.”

Once Hodgson has quit the room, Crozier fixes Lieutenant Little with an unsteady gaze. The captain’s head seems to sway with its own skewered sense of direction. “Did I ever tell you of my-” he pauses to hiccup “-time on the  _ Briton _ ? Sounds like your _ Britannia _ , almost, only she was my last ship before I had rank, not after, like yours...”

Another hiccup. “I shall spoil the story for you, Edward. I met John Adams.”

“Sir?”

“Though not, I think, the John Adams of your imagination. Hm -- were you alive, in 1814? Yes, yes, I think you were, Edward. Walking, possibly? Have you ever heard of the  _ Bounty _ ?”

“Captain,” Little says, voice cautious. “I think perhaps--”

“No, no!” Crozier bats away Mister Blanky’s hand on his shoulder. “I’m telling a story, Thomas, and I’ll not be interrupted any more.

“--Lieutenant William Bligh was the fellow’s name -- the one they’d given command of the breadfruit-- yes, of the breadfruit! -- to. He’d been sailing master to Sir John’s much revered  _ Jeames  _ Cook, before. A cousin to an admiral, a rising star!”

Crozier downs his glass, slamming it on the table. “Mutiny!”

It is a miracle the glass does not shatter. “Sir?”

“They...committed...mutiny,” Crozier explains, “one of the officers, Fletcher? Christian? I’m sure it’ll come to me in the morning...one of the officers -- he did not… they did not present a united front. To the men. Discipline...broke down, Edward. The mutineers forced Bligh and some loyalists onto an open launch, waved their goodbyes…

“Some of the mutineers, they settled on -- what was it? -- ah! Pitcairn Island, that’s the name, Edward. Pit-cairn. Funny name, eh? Stone stone.

“By the time  _ Briton _ took us to Pitcairn Island, only John Adams was alive. I met him. And do you know what he said to me, Edward?”

“Sir, I’m sure--”

“He said that he’d not have done it again, that he wouldn’t have done it in the first place, if he hadn’t had some notion that Bligh had no clue what he was doing. Eroded...it  _ e-roded _ the trust of the crew, to see the command so divided.”

“Captain,” Alexander tries to address him in his most soothing voice, the one he employs on particularly distraught patients, but much like Mister Blanky’s earlier attempt, it is rebuffed. Crozier reaches across the table, to fist his hand into Lieutenant Little’s uniform sleeve, tightly. 

“Do you understand me, Edward?”

“Yes,” Lieutenant Little tells him, holding the captain’s weighty gaze. “I understand you, Sir.”

“A divide would be our _ deaths _ . All of ours. We mustn’t--”

“Francis,” Blanky groans, “leave off it. We’re meant to be celebratin’ here.”

Crozier seems to only now realize that he has more than an audience of one. 

“It’s been a long day,” Alexander says, and watches Lieutenant Little tense as though he had backhanded him clear across the face. “Perhaps we ought to retire.”

“Yes,” Little finally agrees after he has unclenched his jaw. “Long day for all of us.” He clears his throat to address the wall where Jopson has been hovering, clearly dismayed, these past minutes. “I can dispense with Genge in the morning, Mister Jopson. Between Mister Gibson and him it’ll be a small thing to clean this up once they have awoken. Be so kind as to help the captain retire.”

“Certainly, sir,” Jopson says in a voice that sounds much steadier than Alexander had expected, given the circumstances. 

+

When he wakes, the first thought that comes to Alexander is,  _ this is different.  _ It takes him a while to figure out, what, exactly, has made it different. As he lays on his back, staring up at the paneling of his cabin, he realizes what has happened. 

_ Terror _ isn’t moving. 

However scarce had been the splashes of water to her hull, they had nonetheless been there. As the seconds ticking by can be heard on his fob watch, nothing but creaks reach in from the outside. No wind, even, and that is usually the loudest backdrop to fall asleep to. 

The ice has gotten them. Again.

Alexander is startled from his musings by Armitage’s sudden knock, a single rap to announce his presence. “Have you been on deck yet, Mister Armitage?”

“I have, doctor,” Armitage tells him, busy depositing the basin somewhere Alexander has not built a stack of books and setting out a towel. “Frozen in, we are. Well and truly.”

“Do you know where?”

“Sure I don’t,” Armitage reports, half-shrugging before his shoulders stiffen. He’s not got much sense of decorum, but Alexander supposes that is why he is a gunroom steward and has not been hand picked by a captain. “Mister Peglar drove us crazy half the night shouting orders to the topmen. Hard to believe you slept through all of it, Sir.”

It is the morning of the 15th of December, 1846, and after helping poor Mister Jopson manoeuvre the captain into bed, all Alexander had wanted to do was sleep. Having resolved to find some rest at any cost, Alexander had poured himself a small cap of laudanum.  _ Aye, that’ll do it _ , he huffs. He had better not make a habit of it.

“Big storm, last night,” Armitage continues, pleasantly. “Kept me up clear across the night. Calm, now, but Mister Blanky was already crowin’ about us having another one coming when I went to wake him up.”

“And _ Erebus _ ?”

“A mile and a half behind us, so I hear,” Armitage reports as he prepares Alexander’s shaving kit. “Not -- I wouldn’t know myself, Doctor, but Mister Blanky says they’re likely to be frozen in open water. Didn’t make it to an inlet same as we.”

“Ah,” Alexander realizes, sitting up when Armitage holds the little plume of a shaving brush out expectantly. “It would appear Mister Peglar’s commands were worth something, then.”

“It does give that impression, yes,” Armitage agrees. “Good night of sleep is worth something, also. Chin up, Doctor, or I’ll cut you for lack of sight.”

+

On deck, Alexander passes their stokers and engineers, huddled together around cups in which the remains of their tea must be steadily freezing. He catches only bits and bobs of their conversation. 

“Would need a crane to get  _ Erebus _ sorted, right enough.”

“Could tow her, couldn’t we? Come the spring?”

“With our coal running low, as is? Ha!”

When he finds Mister Blanky, the ice master is leaning against the railing on the quarterdeck, chatting with Peglar. One of his hands is kneading the captain of the foretop’s shoulder. He sounds proud. “Pulled that trick out of your arse without hesitation, I see.

“Took initiative, our Mister Peglar,” says Blanky, explaining the situation to Alexander when he takes note of him. “Saw the temperature drop more rapidly than it did the past few days and sailed us to safety before he even woke me.” They’ve had an unfair amount of luck, already, where open water is concerned. 

The captain of the foretop looks equal parts proud and embarrassed. “Lieutenant Irving had the watch with me, but he was--” _Drunk_ , neither of them say “--busy.” Mister Peglar’s a man fine enough to rival any born gentleman. 

“You ever thought about becoming a sailing master, Harry?” Blanky grins, patting his cheek. “Come below, we’ll get you some tobacco -- my treat.”

+

It is always odd to Alexander that they can walk across ice that only days ago had been water. If it wasn’t Lieutenant Irving walking by his side, maybe Alexander would make a joke about feeling Christ-like. As it is, the junior lieutenant looks rather shame-faced. Crozier had not dressed him down, no, but he had singled out Mister Peglar for commendation. That had been rebuke enough. Now the whole sorry lot of them are on their way over to  _ Erebus _ . Doctor Peddie had managed to talk his way out of it. Too many men in sick bay, he’d claimed. He’d not been wrong. Lieutenant Hodgson has stayed behind to rest after his own watch and to be woken up in case Mister Thomas needs advice that Mister Hornby cannot give. 

_ Erebus _ sits steady, at least to all outside appearances, which Blanky remarks upon immediately as Lt. Gore welcomes them aboard with handshakes and rum. “Yes,” Gore nods, flushed, “Had a right old devil of a time trying to keep her upright in last night’s storm. How sits  _ Terror _ ? We can’t see her very well, tucked away in her little inlet.”

“Fine, fine,” Blanky assures him. “Winds won’t touch us once we get the masts down and stowed away.”

_ Erebus’ _ supply of grape juice is large enough to rival Crozier’s whiskey, Alexander supposes. It may also be supposed that Sir John does not burn through his supplies as maddeningly quickly as  _ Terror’s _ captain, and therefore he is still generous with it. Mister Hoar has prepared them quite the feast, with cheeses and cuts of cured meat. Less of a chance of that being rotten. 

“Gentlemen,” Sir John smiles expectantly at his gathered officers, rapping the table with his knuckles. “We are closer than ever to completing our mission. Come the spring, the ice will relinquish her hold on  _ Terror _ and  _ Erebus _ , and we will continue sailing down this strait, until we cross the remaining fifty miles or so to the Western charts. We have made good progress, in these short months granted to us.”

Sir John looks to Crozier, as if to challenge him to deny it. Crozier does not. His eyes are trained firmly on his glass of juice, as though he could turn it to wine if he glared hard enough. How discerning is Captain Crozier in his choice of drink, he wonders?


	18. Tozer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like rat parallels & I love all of y’all :)

#  **Chapter Eighteen - Tozer**

_ December, 1846 - Kingaun (Modern day Bathurst Inlet) _

The long way round to the depths of the hold leads past the cable tiers. As a rule, the men avoid them if they can help it. Rats congregate there -- they make a home that squeaks more with each day. Men give the rats a wide berth now. Not for fear, mind, but because Neptune goes where the men go, and early on in their voyage it hadn’t been uncommon for the dog to drop a dead rat at some unfortunate sailor’s feet, his damned tail wagging all excited like he’d love nothing better but for you to throw it and give him a chance to relive the thrill of killing it. 

Golding had done that all of once and had his ears rung for it only a moment later. Anyone so inclined could admire the print of Mister Diggle’s hand on his cheek for days on end. “You’ll not be throwing carcasses where I cook, Bobby, or rat is all you’ll eat until we see Oahu, is that clear?”

(Next to Sol, Private Hammond had muttered something along the lines of _ everything tastes of rat anyway, recently,  _ and as he considered the grey slobber in his bowl, Sol hadn’t been able to find fault with such a statement.)

That unexpected bit of chastening had made the men wary of rats, more wary of the man who keeps them all fed, and a rumor started soon thereafter that a dead rat dropped at your feet was a bad omen. Aye, it’s not the worst superstition Sol has seen men give in to. Feels like they’re doomed, sometimes. Since then, Neptune’s gone off the vermin and left it to populate the hold to it’s heart’s content. 

Point remains that men don’t come by the cable tiers unless they have to. Mister Armitage has to, on account of the hold being nominally warm enough to hang linens out to dry, what with it being so close to the engines. Stokers give them kisses with the oil every now and then. That’s all that keeps the men from freezing. So they come by on occasion, but he’s seen them go down earlier, and they don’t make the trip twice in one day. 

The sheets hang about like icy ghosts down here, swaying now and then when a particularly strong gale comes at them. Wind gets in despite Mister Darlington’s best -- and from the looks of it Mister Hickey’s mediocre -- efforts. Decay’s faster than any caulker. Sol’s beginning to regret passing his leisure time waiting where he’s not allowed to have a smoke. Armitage might not show until evening, after all. He might not show at all if he’s called to some other task. 

Sol is damned near giving up when he finally hears hasty steps hurrying past the main rat nest, flinging curses at the squeaking pile. That’s a familiar tone, and Sol smiles to hear it. He hasn’t had a chance to get the steward alone since Reuben’s birthday. Well over a month ago, and sure Sol would never curse Billy for his company but it’s been a proper riddle trying to figure Armitage out just by looking at him.

Waiting until Armitage is just in front of him, Sol anticipates the right moment to pounce. He claps a hand over the steward’s mouth. Aye, no one goes here as a rule, but they’ll make an exception for loud noises that can’t have been the rats’ fault and come running. Can’t have Armitage shouting for surprise. 

“Only me,” Sol mutters. “Settle down, would you?”

He releases Armitage’s mouth but doesn’t relinquish the hold he has on him. Feels nice, having a body tucked against him like this. Been a lifetime and a half. Could feel nicer still, given proper handling. Armitage holds himself perfectly still. “Did you mean to give me the fright of my life?” 

“Maybe.” 

“Pat yourself on the back then.” He can’t see Armitage’s face and so reckons the lad is a bit annoyed for having been accosted. Sol can turn that into something else real quick-like. “Bit unusual, this.” 

There’s a gross understatement. “Didn’t get you back,” Sol says, groping around for something to hold on to. He finds what he is looking for soon enough. “That’s bad form.” 

“Your hands were injured. That’s a fine excuse in my book, Sergeant.” 

“All healed, now,” he murmurs. With his lips at the steward’s ear, he’s tempted to have a nibble but rules that out as risky. Men set odd rules for themselves regarding shipboard liaisons — might be Armitage will take offense to a kiss, best not to provoke anything. Armitage shudders for him when Sol proves just how hale he is, relaxes his shoulders real nice and sinks back against Sol’s chest, inviting more. His curls tickle Sol’s neck once the cap’s fallen off. His breath comes out all shaky. “Oh, would you look at that? That’s functioning beautifully, that is.”

Pushing it, maybe. He’s not usually this chatty, either. Sol needs to get a grip -- on himself, that is. He’s got Armitage just about covered, he thinks. Small thing. Probably been underfed half his life. 

“Shouldn’t put much of a strain on your wrists, even so.” 

“Ah,” Sol teases. “Want something else of mine, do you?”

“I meant only that—”

He’s got their positions flipped in a second, falling to his knees with ease — old enough that the joints complain but still young enough to ignore it. By the time Armitage has recovered from his second shock of the day, Sol has taken one of his gloved hands and put it firmly to his hair. 

“Keep a watch,” he orders, “and give us a tug if someone’s coming, would you?” 

Can’t predict what a man prefers just by looking at him, but Sol figures as long as he keeps his teeth out of the way, he can’t go wrong, exactly, and so sets about it. Tommy’s writhing by the second volley of attack, being nice and responsive, biting his free hand to keep quiet. Makes Sol smile to see it, that does. 

A tug comes, sharp against the skin of his head. By then it’s only been a minute or so since he took up this business. Sol’s about to pull off -- should, if they’re to escape a court-martial, a short drop and a sudden stop -- but he freezes in place at the root. He’d kept an ear out -- old habit, that. Can’t rightly say he hears anyone besides Tommy even now, and how would Tommy have heard someone before he had? Sol trains his ears and stays as he is. No footsteps. Some commotion on the orlop, he thinks. Ship’s never deadly quiet, there’s always something, even if it’s only them damned rats. He can hear them scurrying about just fine, fighting for whatever scraps are left before they devour the next of their ranks.

Tommy’s hips stutter forward twice more, then the whole of his body tenses all at once. Sol feels warmth hit the roof of his mouth before it dribbles down the back of his throat. Chokes. Just a bit, mind. He’s surprised, not some quibbling recruit that don’t know what he’s messing with. 

“Told me to tug if I were close, didn’t you?” Tommy asks, breathless with it, slumping against the wall. “Thought you’d want to pull off.  _ Christ _ , Solomon.”

Not a blushing youth either, he is. 

“Weren’t what I meant,” Sol rasps, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. Tommy might have misheard him, come to that. Weren’t speaking clearly. It’s for the best. This way there’s no mess. Hadn’t done that in a long time though — not since Portsmouth, at least.

“Could give you a different kind of tug,” Tommy offers, “make up for giving you a fright -- sorry for that.” 

Sol stands quickly and tries to ignore he’s likely got some stains on his knees. He hopes they won’t be too telling. They’re all a little bit dirty after all, these days. He’ll think of something to say, should there be questions. Can’t get his head on straight just now, all the blood’s gone and fucked off where it’s warm. South. “Not enough time.” 

“Didn’t take you long last time,” Tommy says, a bit belligerently. 

“Proud of yourself for that, are you?” 

“Well-deserved, I’d think.” The steward laughs, pausing as he tucks himself away to look Sol up and down. Some of his state must be obvious. Tommy’s eyes linger, so they do. His lower lip is bitten red already from keeping his vocals in check, but he worries it between his teeth again. Tommy’s tongue is soft and pink all over when it soothes the indentations left behind. 

“You can think what you like, Tommy. That don’t make it true.” He raps his knuckles softly against Tommy’s cheek, though he can’t rightly say why. Does it show how embarrassed he is for having used that nickname? Slipped out, is all. Shouldn’t think of  _ Mister Armitage _ in such fond terms. Gives everyone involved the wrong idea, doesn’t it?

“Best leave you to your work, then,” he says and clears his throat. He swears he can still taste all he wrung from  _ Armitage, _ and that flavour is bound to keep til he can wash it down with grog. Not the worst a man can taste, far from it. “Still flying the flag of distress, Mister Armitage. Should put yourself to rights before someone notices.” 

+

_ Terror’s _ second mate is more of a pup than a man, though he’s not half bad at putting on airs of authority. Only passed his examination a month before they were supposed to leave, he did. Sol can’t make out much of his face in the perpetual darkness around them -- won’t see the sun until January, all told -- but from the tone of his voice, there is a smile on it when he comes up onto the deck for the second dog watch. “Terribly windy, isn’t it, Sergeant?”

“Aye,” Sol agrees. Wind’s been whipping them good for weeks, changing direction quicker than anyone can duck out of the way. Now and then shards of ice hit  _ Terror.  _ Bit like taking a broadside, that is, the way they’ve got to dodge splintered bits of the gunwale. Kills more men than any cannonball, those bloody splinters. Lodge deep, those do. 

“I’ve been wondering if it’s safe -- we’ve a man in the crow’s nest.”

Sol stares at the young man for a while. He’s not sure if he is being serious. “Get him down, aye,” he urges, “immediately.” That’d be the thing, wouldn’t it? Storm blowing them about, and they insist someone ride it out in the nest. 

“But the captain’s ordered--” Mister Thomas clears his throat, possibly having noticed the incredulity in Sol’s face or words, possibly remembering the invaluable advice given to all young officers, that it’d mean the end if they ever did appear uncertain. He cups his hands over his mouth and then gives a shout for Bailey. “Back on deck!”

They receive an affirmative in response. Sounds relieved, young Alex does. Wouldn’t be the type to complain about being sent up, not after they tied him to a grate for falling asleep on watch. He was on thin ice there, for a while. If it were more than metaphorical, Sir John might envy the lad his good luck. The actual ice must be as thick as two men laid head to toe, Sol considers as he turns to stare at their captor. Can’t face the wind long: his eyes water and the wind freezes the tears on his face. “Reckon there’s still open water in these parts?”

“Sir John talked about sending out lead parties, I hear. No telling if he means tomorrow or in the spring--” 

Behind them, a scream cuts through the air, sharply interrupted by a sudden stop. The sound of impact, bone against plank. Hardly registers. Then they’re all off on a mad dash.

“Bailey!” Even in the dim light, he can see the AB is done for. Sol’s hand comes away sticky when he tries to cradle his head. Jagged bits of bone, too, tearing into his newly-mended gloves. Rotten luck.

“Get a doctor,  _ now _ \--”

“He’s not breathin--”

“Check his pulse!”

By the time Doctor Peddie has rushed on deck -- Captain Crozier and his steward shortly behind him -- Sol’s glove has all but soaked through with blood. He feels it freeze against his fingers. Bailey hasn’t so much as moved since. 

“--must have lost his footing,” Mister Thomas is explaining, hastily.

“Sir.” Lieutenant Little draws the captain’s attention. “I’ll have someone fetch Mister Peglar. We’ll see if we cannot get the masts taken down tomorrow rather than tonight. Should the wind--”

“Yes,” Crozier concurs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Edward, recall Peglar from below. Have the men do it in teams.”

+

He looks for Billy afterwards, once he’s had his turn at the basin. He no longer looks a fright, he supposes, but he still feels it. Finds Billy snoring in his hammock, all peaceful-like. He’s been complaining about not being able to all these weeks now, so Sol decides to leave him be. Can’t close his eyes right now for knowing all he’ll see is young Alex Bailey with his brain splattered on the ship. No reason both of them should lose sleep over it. Pity the poor bugger pressed to clean up the lad’s earthly remains and move on, that’s what Sol ought to do. Have a nice little lie down in his hammock and count off everything good he’s heard about the Sandwich Islands. Aye, that’s what he should do, but he doesn’t.

Before he fully resolves to do so his feet are already taking him to the mess. By now the marines have already put up their hammocks, but here groups of men still sit at their entertainment for the evening. 

His cheeks should rightly burn with shame, Sol thinks, when his eyes immediately seek out Armitage. It’s a bad idea, Sol tries telling himself; he really does try. But the steward makes a triumphant  _ aha  _ sound that goes deep into the marrow of Sol’s bones as he cleans Gibson and Genge out of their chocolate rations, and even as he knows it to be a right foolish impulse, he does not avert his eyes. 

Hickey’s with them -- Sol’s inclined to give the whole table a pass on account of that. How would that look, him just walking over there when the only person he can stand is Tommy? They’d be suspicious of him, and rightly so. Strictly speaking, that boy Golding is there as well, but he’s a ship’s boy and of no consequence. Putting up with ship’s boys is the same as putting up with dogs unless they’re right little shites.

Armitage has his head thrown back, laughing at Genge’s pout and promising him the chance to win his chocolate back with a quick round. As he settles himself, his eyes stumble upon Sol’s and hold there, startled though he seems. Course he is, Sol thinks. Probably doesn’t take well to being stared at, and who would? The steward’s lips are still slightly parted, his tongue licking over the lower seam once before he clamps them shut, looking down at his cards.

“Come to join us, Sergeant?” Mister Hickey calls out. “The more the merrier!” 

His feet move of their own accord. Golding shoves off to another table after the most minute effort at glaring, and Sol takes his place, wordlessly sliding onto the bench next to Tommy. 

Hickey’s got one of his cigarettes between his teeth, unlit. It flaps about when he speaks -- which he does a more than tolerable amount -- and reminds Sol of market day in Axbridge. Mister Hickey has all the looks of a man trying to sell something; Sol’s at a loss as to the product.

“And how is one of the greatest argonauts of our age?” Hickey asks, that insouciant grin plastered onto his face as it always is. He pulls a card from the deck, making a show of momentarily scowling. Might be that’s why Billy Heather doesn’t like him much: they use some of the same tricks. “Your hand, Mister Gibson,” sounds more like an afterthought. Hickey keeps his eyes trained firmly on Sol. 

He gives a grunt in response. It’s not Hickey he’d come looking for. Faced only with him, he’d have turned on his heel, but beneath the table, the hard toe of Tommy’s boot nudges against his. Their calves tangle together, barely. It still feels like an anchorline to Sol, and a second later he’s settled, no longer adrift. Easy as you like. Does Tommy know, he wonders? 

Hickey chuckles and, clearly unbothered by an outright lack of interest, continues. “Frozen in for another miserable winter, and how does that happen to the best ships of the age? Right up there with the gods are our experts, to hear Sir John tell it, and still—”

“Cornelius,” sighs Gibson, laying a card down. Nine of hearts. “Must you?” 

“Only saying what we’re all thinking, Billy.”

“Do us all a favour and think more quiet-like in the future,” Sol grumbles. 

“What, is that some kind of treason, Sergeant?” 

“Yeah,” Sol says, “it is. You know it is.”

“Go on and make your report then, why don’t you?” 

Tommy follows Gibson’s lead. Ten of hearts. 

“Christ, Cornelius.” Gibson goes stiff about the shoulders. He sounds exasperated. No wonder. With how much those two hang about one another, he’s sure to hear the worst of it. If Mister Hickey is willing to talk like  _ that  _ in front of a marine sergeant, it beggars belief that he should turn to praise command to those who actually enjoy his company. “Is it any wonder you rack up duty owing like it’s all that is keeping you alive?” 

Mister Hickey chuckles, kicking at Sol beneath the table. It hits Tommy’s shin instead, on account of their entanglement. Tommy doesn’t make a sound, and he covers the little jump he gives by leaning forward onto his elbows. Shifts him closer to Sol, that does, and he can feel Tommy’s thigh pressed against his own. If they were alone—

“Times are changin’, Billy. I’m moving up in the world.” 

“Aye, so you are, Mister Hickey,” Genge laughs, throwing his last card down. He stands, holding a beckoning hand out to Tommy. “I’ll take my winnings and retire, I think.” 

Tommy seems to complain only out of respect for tradition as he returns Mister Genge’s chocolate ration -- he’s smiling all the while. 

“Wouldn’t do to be late in fluffing Lieutenant Little’s little pillow,” Hickey agrees. “Run off to do his bidding now, Mister Genge.”

Genge scoffs. “I fear you’re green in many ways, Mister Hickey. Your derision of my work is noted.” 

Tommy shifts even closer to Sol as he makes room for Genge to leave and doesn’t move away afterwards. Both of them stay right as they are. 

“Alright,” Hickey decides, standing up. “Going for a smoke before bed. Anyone keen?” 

“Could do with one,” Gibson says, making to follow. 

“I’ll come if you stand me some,” Golding tries from one table over. It earns him a chuckle. 

“Fuck off to bed, why don’t you, Bobby?” Hickey grins before softening the blow. “Maybe I’ll feel generous tomorrow.” 

That leaves Sol alone with Tommy, and isn’t that precisely what he’d wanted? Only now he’s at a loss as to what he might say. 

It seems Tommy doesn’t suffer the same. “Heard about what happened on deck.”

“Bloody awful,'' Sol agrees. 

“Are you all right?” Tommy looks earnest, peering at Sol from underneath his lashes. His lower lip is worried bloody and just beginning to scab over. A taste of that—

“Aye, settle yourself,” he dismisses. “Wasn’t me who fell.” 

Tommy gives a great sigh like Sol’s a difficult child he’s been tasked with minding. “Suffer my concern a while, Solomon. It’s kindly meant.”

No one’s called him Solomon since he saw Miriam last. When Tommy does it, it’s more reminiscent of his Ma than his sister, but it’s strange in a familiar sort of way, like unlocking a memory Sol had long kept buried.  _ Solomon _ , Tommy says all serious, frowning. Makes a man wonder if he can get his name to sound different coming past the steward’s lips.

“Sweet of you,” Sol teases, nudging Tommy’s side. “I’ll go and ask your Pa for his blessing, shall I?”

Now the steward snorts, like he’s made some grand joke. “Died years ago, he did. If he’s watching over me I’m sure he’d sooner bloody your nose for despoiling me.”

“Hang on— Were you—?” That can’t be true, can it? 

Tommy winks, lifting his cup and drinking deep. “Well, what do you think, Sergeant?” 

“Think your Da didn’t know what a menace you are.”

“Might be,” Tommy laughs. 

“Reckon I could take him?”

“You might, come to that, but I’d not have you afterwards.” 

“Fond of him, were you?”

“He were a good father,” Tommy says, shrugging. “Didn’t have anyone but him once my Ma passed.”

“Have you not got a girl back home, Mister Armitage?” Might be that it’s stupid of him to ask. What’s he going to do with an answer to that question but hurt himself? Sol’s got an inkling what it was that drove him to look for Tommy tonight, why he’s better now for feeling the steady press of Tommy’s thigh against his own. He knows what he’s about, only — he shouldn’t ask that of Tommy. Won’t. Not the thing done, that is, no matter how well they’ve come to know each other in the hold. 

“Only loved one girl my entire life. Around my time serving on the  _ Gannet _ with our very own Mister Peglar, though he were only Harry then, and I was only Tommy. Seems like eternity now.” Tommy looks fond, aye, but wistful, too. He glances at Sol sideways. “Spoiling to hear about her?” 

He isn’t, not really, but he nods anyway. 

“She were a beauty,” Tommy remembers. “Thick-set but graceful. The most lovely green eyes you’d ever seen, I tell you.” 

“She sounds a right treat,” Sol admits. 

“She was,” Tommy smiles with all the bashfulness of a lover. 

“Give us a name, then.” 

“Caecilia,” Tommy draws the syllables out on his tongue, like it's something to be savoured. Sol feels like scowling. “Damned fine hair, she had, too. Golden brown. Almost like yours, Sergeant. Felt like pure silk, running your hands through it.” He finishes his drink, adding, “For the first few months of the voyage, anyway.”

“Voyage — hang on, you had a lady—?”

Tommy laughs furtively, ducking his head. “She were a ship’s cat, Solomon.” 

“Right,” Sol says, exhaling loudly. “Had me on good and proper, Mister Armitage. Well done, that.” 

Tommy grins, looking pleased as punch. “Reckon I could have you on somewhere else, if you like.” 

“Hold’s occupied, don’t you think?” Sol shakes his head. “Rats are at it. Best leave them to it.” 

“Shouldn’t talk about a man like that.” There’s only mild disapproval to his voice, he’s not scowling or anything. 

“And who’s to say I am?” 

“He’s— he’s not a rat, you know. You cannot pretend we are without grievances.” 

“Aye,” Sol frowns. “Voyage like ours weren’t ever gonna be easy, we all knew that when we set out. But you suck it up and you deal with it, Tommy, that’s what you do. Hickey’s a rat and a layabout, is all.”

Tommy gives him a long look, rather severe now. “Foul mood you’re in, Sergeant.”

He’d like to go back to being  _ Solomon  _ and hearing about Tommy’s childhood, only he can’t ask for that, can he? “Told you I weren’t nice,” Sol retorts, moving to get up. Tommy’s hand on his thigh stills him. 

“You don’t gotta pretend you don’t want to be here, you know?” Tommy tells him, earnest as always. “I won’t go thinking you’re sweet on me just because we’re having a chat.”

“Tumble’s a tumble,” Sol grits out. 

“Aye, and I’ve got an ear on offer, too,” Tommy snorts. “Just the one, mind. For a friend.” 

Right. He settles back on the bench, folds his hands together on the table. Can’t talk about Bailey, no matter how hard those wide eyes plead with him. Doesn’t want to talk anymore about the caulker’s mate and his grievances. 

“Give us another story, then,” he rasps. “Please.”

+

It’s only Lieutenant Little who sits in the gunroom when Jopson opens it for Sol. No, that’s not quite right: Irving’s there, in the corner, propping a roll of paper on his knees like some schoolboy and taking notes. Bit unusual that the captain isn’t present for a meeting he requested. 

First come, first served; Sol finds an empty chair and plops himself down. Jopson’s got tea set out, so he helps himself to that as well. If Jopson’s here, so far from his territory, the captain can’t be far off. But the minutes tick by, and while Mister Peglar, Mister Farr and the other petty officers find their way to the gunroom one by one, Crozier remains notably absent. Genge stops by to whisper something to Jopson, and soon thereafter, the captain’s steward slips away real quiet-like. 

“We’ll begin, then,” Little says, clearing his throat. “Gentlemen--”

“I say,” Hodgson arrives, complaining all the while. “These damned magnetic studies really can’t be so important as Jopson claims, can they, Ed?”

Little turns his head slowly, giving Hodgson a very severe look. “Have a seat, Lieutenant Hodgson.”

Right, Sol notes. Something’s foul here, true enough. 


	19. Little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stop sending Nedward emails he just wants a hug.

#  **Chapter Nineteen - Little**

_ December 1846 - Bathurst Inlet _

The wardroom is out of strawberry preserves. That in itself would not be a travesty, if the only alternative weren’t plum. It is not wholly unsurprising, given the extravagant tarts Hodgson thought up for his birthday. In fact, he should rather be glad they lasted him as long as they did. 

Hodgson and Irving note nothing of this deliberation. 

“--Yes, and then I happened to go down into the hold,” Irving recounts, buttering his biscuit sparingly. “Someone really ought to do something about the rats, if Neptune won’t.”

Hearing his name, the dog perks up. He comes trotting over to Irving’s chair and rests his head expectantly in the junior lieutenant’s lap. “Yes,” Irving says as he pets him, “you’re a very good dog, only you don’t do your job half so well as you should, my dear boy. If you were a sailor we’d have to flog you.”

Irving eyes Edward. “What do you make of Mister Hickey?”

“Mister Hickey?” Repeating the name is hard to do without feeling some distaste unrelated to the plums in his mouth. “A more suspect creature there never was.”

Hodgson pulls a face that suggests he considers the judgement rather too harsh, but he says nothing. Instead it is Irving who speaks once more, nodding as he does. “There’s been a complaint.”

“Mister Darlington?”

Edward has heard that complaint a dozen times since they set off, occasionally bellowed through the hold. 

“Not only from him, I’m afraid,” says Irving. “There are accusations of  _ dirtiness _ . There are worse whispers still.”

Edward scowls. He can’t help it, though he does so hate it when his expression slips beyond his control. Of all the things to get caught for! He’d dearly like to forget hearing Irving mutter the word, but the accusation has been made, and it falls to him now to follow up on it; God knows Crozier has not shown his face in days. “I’ll put it to the captain.” 

The next time Crozier comes out of his cabin, he means. That might be weeks from now, he thinks, more harshly than the captain perhaps deserves.

“Let’s have no more of this for breakfast,” Hodgson complains. “It’s so very hard to stomach, and the food is bad enough as is!”

“What on earth is wrong with the food, George?” Irving frowns. 

“I say,” George protests, “these biscuits are hard enough to choke a man if he’s not careful.”

Truth be known, Edward’s had worse. Mister Diggle is not without merit in his field. He’s not about to get into a fight about ship’s biscuits, however. “These are the sacrifices we make for queen and country, George,” he grunts. 

“ _ Dulce et decorum est pro patria expuli _ ,” Irving muses, before biting into his prepared biscuit. He has the sense to wash it down generously with tea. Idly, Edward wonders what will happen when that runs out. Or will they stop being able to heat the water beforehand? He has not an inkling of knowledge regarding their tea stores. 

Hodgson is back to laughing now, at least. “Let us hope, my dear fellow, that such is all the fatherland will ask of us.”

Three quick knocks in succession signal Jopson’s presence at the door. “The forenoon watch has gone up, Sirs.”

Irving hastily scarfs down the remainders of his breakfast, leaving the final swill of tea behind. “Come on, George, you can tell me about the Sumatran pirates again on our way up. That’ll keep me warm.”

“Mister Peglar’s a good man to hand a sabre, I tell you,” Hodgson grins, pushing his chair back to follow Edward. “And the food was marvelous in Sumatra - nothing like what we’re made to eat here. Have you had a mango before, John?” His plate is untouched, save for the one biscuit he’d nibbled at before declaring it unpalatable. 

“Captain’s up, Sir,” Jopson says once they can no longer hear the others. “He’ll join you for breakfast soon, I expect.”

“Thank you, Jopson,” says Edward, making an effort of digging into his food with more enthusiasm. Jopson watches intently. How much has he overheard?

“How terrible we must sound to you,” Edward brings himself to say after his tea has long gone. “Complaining as we are while we have access to the best stores on  _ Terror _ .”

“Terrible, Sir?” Jopson’s brows knit together. He turns over his shoulder, interrupting his work for no better purpose than to satisfy Edward’s vanity. It should not be so. “I understand wanting better food, Sir. You needn’t worry you’ve offended me.”

“But I always worry,” Edward says before he considers his words overly much. Might as well double down, he thinks. “I should not like to fall in your esteem, on the off chance that I’ve come by it these past years.”

“You needn’t worry about that either, Sir,” Jopson smiles. Edward has no right to his time, and yet--

“Oh, that’s--”

“Edward,” Crozier says, walking through the door of the wardroom as though the captain had made a habit of conversing easily with his second this winter, as if they were still in communication as at Beechey and before. “How’s the ice?”

“I’m afraid I’ve not been up yet, Sir,” Edward says. That is not strictly true: after Genge had woken him, he’d gone up for a brief spell of fresh air -- around four bells, morning watch -- but there’d been nothing to see for miles, only fresh snow stirred up by unpredictable winds. “It’s my turn with inspections today. Lieutenants Hodgson and Irving have the watch -- they’ll report once they’ve come down.”

“It is a captain’s  _ duty _ to check the ice before he worries about breakfast, Edward,” Crozier lectures, voice sounding strained. 

“How looks the ice then, Sir?” 

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Edward knows he has no right to say them. They reek of insubordination, and it is probably only because Crozier is in such a miserable state that all he does is show Edward a pained grin, his eyes half-closed, head shaking minutely. 

When it looks as though Crozier is not going to say anything more, Edward finds himself speaking against his inclinations. “I thought it might be wise to shorten the watches. We’ve seen a steady drop in temperatures of late.”

Crozier’s eyes are glassy when he turns them to Edward, but he manages to answer with surprising clarity. “Two hours at first. Have Mister Lane draw up a new roster. We’ll re-evaluate when it gets colder.”

“Yes, Sir,” he says, glad to have an order to follow.

“Where are you going?” Crozier asks when Edward pushes his chair back shortly afterwards. 

“Mister Blanky is bound to be up by now, Sir,” Edward explains. “We’ll have the report you asked for within an hour.”

He shouldn’t have spoken like that to his captain. Edward resolves not to, in the future, but there’s no telling what that future looks like just now. 

+

Inspection is second only to Sunday service on the list of duties Edward Little attends to with limited enthusiasm. He does it because it is expected of him, of course, but especially in moments like this one -- Mister Hickey looking up at him from under his lashes, batting his eyelids just a tad too coquettishly -- he asks himself what the worst is that could happen, were he to leave the men to keep clean without the threat of additional work looming over their heads. Ship’s fever, probably. The memory of that alone—

There are many things to enjoy about a naval career, he reminds himself. Navigating a ship is one of them, coordinating the motions of a crew one-hundred strong to execute perfect manoeuvres even on hostile waters is another. There’s not much of that in the arctic, however, and less of it now that they are once more frozen in. 

He saves sick bay for last, after almost forgetting to tell the men just how many of them earned duty in the log. 

“I wonder,” Doctor Peddie complains, when Edward goes to confer with him, “why Captain Crozier specifically asks for me to deliver the reports and then Jopson tells me -- at the door to the wardroom, mind! -- that he’s too busy to receive me. I’ll have you know, Lieutenant, that captain or no, I’ll not be jerked around like that.”

“Nor should you,” Edward tries to temper the surgeon. 

His rounds end where they started: at the door of the wardroom. An exhausted looking Jopson opens the door for him. His eyes, though their shade has not truly changed, appear duller for the deep shadows beneath and the redness dispersed within them .  That Edward notices it so clearly means either he stands too close, or the poor steward is dreadfully overworked. 

“Lieutenant Little, Sir,” he says, cautiously. 

“Am I to be allowed in or do you intend to play the mongoose for me as well, Mister Jopson? Hodgson and Blanky both tell dreadful tales of your insistence.”

“Captain’s asleep in his berth, Sir,” Jopson warns, though he does step aside to admit him. “I don’t think he found any rest last night, and so I hesitate to wake him--” 

“Mister Jopson,” Edward sighs, beginning a final mission for today that is likely to be futile. “No one can doubt that you’ve gone above and beyond in your service to him. I’m sure Captain Crozier is very grateful to you. Nevertheless, you ought to get some rest yourself.” 

“But he might call for me.” 

Exceptionally dedicated indeed. “I thought you’d say that,” Edward nods. “Failing to convince you to take some rest, I thought we might begin with some geometric theorems.” See if those don’t put him to sleep.

Jopson’s smile is a careful thing, but, oh, how wonderful to see it. “I thought you had forgotten, Sir.” 

“Only been busy, Jopson,” Edward says, “but we’re frozen in now: we’ll have plenty of time. I’ve hardly anything to do until I am expected for dinner on  _ Erebus _ .” 

+

The trek is only a mile and a half, but in this weather it may as well be twenty. Though he has a marine to accompany him, Private Daly’s eyes aren’t better than his, and they are left to shuffle half-blind through the towering ridges of ice that have sprung up haphazardly around them. He relies on his compass mostly, keeping in mind _ Erebus _ ’ last communicated position. Evans’ teeth chatter loud enough to be a nuisance. He can hear the boy try to keep himself warm by virtue of distraction even through the wind’s incessant howling. “Imagine trying to find your way in this place on your own—sure I’d be lost quicker than I could blink, eh, Private?”

“Aye, maybe,” says the sullen marine. 

“Wind’s blinding enough,” Evans continues. “Must be a hundred miles an hour or more, wouldn’t you say?”

“Seems so, yes.”

“Blimey!” Evans raises his voice. “Watch your step, Sir -- something’s moving, way out.”

“Thank you, Evans,” Edward yells over his shoulder. “Good man.” It’s only one of  _ Erebus _ ’ mates: Mister Des Voeux has come to meet them some way from the ship. He has a better idea of  _ Erebus’ _ position, and from there on out the remaining half mile is as easily covered as one might expect in a snow storm. It’s mild, compared with what they’ve recorded in recent months. Still, it’s a storm. 

_ Erebus  _ does not look as steady as in his memory when they finally spot her. 

“Her stern’s up another 20 inches since Monday last,” Des Voeux says. “Riding the icy waves.”

Her position does lend itself to that image. “What says your carpenter?” 

“Oh, he complains a fair bit,” Des Voeux recounts, merrily. “But it’s our caulker that’s a right fright, I tell you. He’s convinced we’ll sink with the spring, the cheeky bastard, and he’s crowed about it to the whole crew.”

“Do you know what Sir John intends to do?”

“Pray?” Des Voeux suggests, smiling truculently at Edward. “I don’t suppose you think he tells me of his plans, Sir?”

Right.

“Cheer up!” Des Voeux claps Edward’s shoulder in that over-familiar fashion he has come to expect from the Erebites. “Tonight you’ve the chance to sate your curiosities by asking him.”

+

There is no way to fish little bits of metal from between your teeth in a gentlemanly fashion, Edward has long learned. He does his very best by covering his mouth and spitting the things into his serviette, but a part of him feels for poor Mister Hoar, who will be left to deal with that mess. 

“--but how are things on  _ Terror _ , Edward?” 

Sir John’s eyes are intent upon him when Edward looks up from his plate. “She keeps us busy, Sir,” he reports. “Mister Darlington is confident that she’ll float when the ice melts, provided we are not surprised by some very unfortunate pressure ridges. Mister Blanky keeps an eye out for those.”

“I believe you must have seen  _ Erebus’ _ state,” Fitzjames posits. “We anticipate that she will rise some more until the thaw.” 

This presupposes that there will be a thaw. Mister Blanky has harped on about this year being even colder than the last, they might not be free of the ice for a while. Edward does not voice such worries. Instead he tongues a bit of metal loose from his gums -- it is sharp and leaves the taste of blood on his palate -- spits, and asks, “will she float?”

“With God’s help,” Sir John claims. 

“And a lot of caulk,” Lt. Le Vesconte adds. “That shan’t hurt the endeavour.”

“What of your captain?” Sir John asks, looking as though he has been waiting to. Edward supposes he must have been. Waiting, that is. If he were commander of an expedition - perish the thought - and he were forced to watch from the flagship as his second avoided him as expertly as a street rat pursued by strays, well… he supposes he, too, might stoop to inviting that ship’s first lieutenant to dinner to squeeze the truth out of him, knowing he has not the rank to deny him. Desperate times. “I hardly hear a peep from Francis these days.”

“He’s at his studies when he isn’t pressingly busy, Sir,” Edward says evasively. He does not usually employ such wicked tricks, but he turns now to Fitzjames, to enquire, “Have you read his works on magnetic theory?”

Fitzjames leans back in his chair. A smile plays about his lips and his arms cross over his chest. “I read the whole of it before I ever met the man. For a long time I could not reconcile the thought of so taciturn a fellow producing something so captivating. You’d hardly know it for how sullenly he speaks at dinner, but Francis certainly has a way with words.”

“Yes, rather,” Edward agrees. “I dare say he will have plenty of new material when we return.”

“Edward, be honest with us now.” Sir John is dogged in his pursuit of the truth. “Are you much overworked? We could send our Walter over to assist you, should it -- well, should our dear Francis find himself  _ unfit _ to continue as he has _. _ ”

Sir John would not -- no, he can’t possibly be suggesting what Edward has inferred from these words. That’s -- 

“Thank you, Sir, but that is really not necessary,” he says immediately, perhaps too quickly. “Captain Crozier has  _ Terror _ well in hand.”

Is this mutiny? He can’t tell Crozier -- there’s no way to predict how he’ll react, for he is in a bad state and has been for some time. He suspects he has fooled neither Sir John nor Commander Fitzjames with his words. If they mean to demote  _ Terror’s _ captain, however, they’ll have to do it without Edward’s help, and better they know now. Strictly speaking, they don’t need him to do it — of course not — but he’ll not be the bullet they put in Crozier’s head. 

“Well,” says Sir John, sounding highly doubtful, “if that should change, Edward, pray don’t hesitate to signal  _ Erebus _ for help.”

+

By the time he makes it back to  _ Terror, _ the storm has settled. He does not quite feel himself. In his head, Sir John’s words war with Crozier’s.  _ We must not be divided _ crashes against  _ signal Erebus for help,  _ and he is at a loss entirely. Given the choice, Edward would sleep until they reach the Sandwich Islands. Waking up on Oahu’s beach, where the ice and all the accompanying despair are only a distant memory -- that is what he wants. He’d also take a sober captain, or else the captain of the first few months after Greenhithe. Edward’s not picky, he’s desperate. 

Sleep doesn’t come to him. 

Edward hears the bell signaling the end of first watch as though he were below water. When he was a boy his family would retire to the country house in summertime, where, about a mile into the woods, there’d been a pond filled with all manner of creatures and ripe for swimming. 

On days his older brothers had better things to do, Edward would pull Nellie along or she him, and they’d grin at each other underwater and try to shout words into the bubbles they blew with each exhalation. 

“Lieutenant Little, Sir?” 

“Jopson!” Edward startles, though he is accustomed to the steward as he assumes the steward is to him. Like a stature, Edward considers himself. He drew attention at first, but Mister Jopson has come to view him as a fixture of the room. He no longer apologizes for disturbing him, even when he catches Edward at nothing but staring morosely off into the distance. 

Today he asks, “More works on the ice, Sir?” 

He closes his book to look Jopson over. The poor steward appears rather frazzled. “No, this is only for pleasure, I must admit.” 

“Just as well,” Jopson says. “Need something to keep you warm if you’re sitting in a cold cabin.” 

“I hadn’t noticed,” Edward lies. Half a lie, really: one never really grows accustomed to climes this cold -- Commander Fitzjames had the right of it -- but for the most part he had tuned it out. Even as he sat reading in his mittens, it had not occurred to him to send for Jopson. He might have sent for Genge, come to that, if Doctor MacDonald hadn’t admitted him to sick bay for colics.

“We’ll have you warm in a minute, Sir,” Jopson promises. 

Edward stretches his legs. In doing so, he regretfully disturbs Neptune, who had been slobbering onto his leg in serene sleep this past half hour. He envies the dog's baser faculties. How easily sleep must come when you have not the ability to worry!

“Some more light as well, I think. You’ll ruin your eyes reading by the candle as you have.” 

“Don’t mother me, Jopson.” 

“An officer needs good eyesight, Sir.” 

“Nonsense,” Edward yawns. “That’s what ships boys and glasses are for.” 

Jopson’s brow knits together. 

“What was Antarctica like?” The words echo awkwardly in the silence his poor joke has created.

The steward looks away as quickly as he looked to Edward, drawing his matchbook from within his coat. He fiddles with it. “Didn’t feel this cold, I’ll tell you that -- ah, bloody fuckin’ bollocks!” 

The match sizzles, Edward can hear it, but Jopson drops it. He can see the steward’s thumb at his lips. It’s no matter. Wetness clings to every board and panel on  _ Terror _ . Whatever fire might have started on the match ends with it. You’d need powder to set her ablaze, a whole lot of it.  _ You’re running her too hot.  _

“Are you all right?” 

_ Get back. For Christ’s sake— _

“Just a splinter, Sir.” His voice is once more perfectly composed, no trace of the vulgarity that slipped out left.

“Give it here,” Edward orders, standing to inspect Jopson’s hand. It’s a small thing, the splinter, but it’s lodged beneath a fold of skin, and deep. “Hm.” 

“Sir?” 

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to operate, Mister Jopson, and with haste.” 

“But, Sir, they’ll have all gone to bed — oh, you tease me. How disappointing of you.” 

Jopson draws his hand away. The loss leaves Edward feeling the cold more keenly than before. 

“We really should set about removing it,” Edward says. He searches within his boot for the little blade he has taken to carrying, twirling it around his fingers. “Give us your hand, then.” Jopson hesitates, cradling his injured hand against his chest. “That is -- we can find Doctor Peddie, if you’d prefer. But I assure you I have done this before.” 

Reluctantly, Jopson relinquishes his hand into Edward’s grip. “Come now,” Edward teases, feeling almost giddy despite himself. He should sleep, really. This behaviour is certainly unbefitting of a lieutenant. “Have a little trust. You look as though I mean to rob you.” 

Clucking his tongue, Edward sets about removing the thing, careful to avoid spilling blood onto Jopson’s clothes. He traps the splinter against his knife with his thumb, shakes it off once it no longer snags on skin. The knife finds a temporary hold between his teeth as he reaches for the handkerchief Jopson had left on his bed some days ago, free of stains and pressed, wrapping it firmly over the few droplets of blood that have welled up on the steward’s pale skin. 

“There,” he proclaims, patting the fabric. “All done.” 

Jopson is gaping at him when their eyes meet. 

Edward hastily drops his hand and steps back into respectability. He feels he should explain. “The horses -- sometimes they rub against the fence too roughly. It requires a steady pair of hands.” 

“Horses, Sir?” 

Edward realizes that perhaps he has not been sufficiently forthcoming with his personal history. “Yes, my family breeds them.” 

“You should know, Sir,” Jopson says after a long beat of silence, not meeting his eye. “Something happened, while you were on  _ Erebus _ .” 

_ Crozier _ , he thinks, dumbly.  _ He’s drunk himself to death _ . But, no -- Edward isn’t thinking clearly. That’s the exhaustion exacerbating his fear. 

“You must understand,” Jopson sighs, cradling his hand against his chest. One finger fiddles with the handkerchief. “It was a very long day.” 

“How I despise the euphemism,” Edward laments, even while knowing it as a necessary one. 

“There was an incident in the mess hall,” he reports. “Mister Darlington, it appeared, had lost his temper.” Jopson pauses to take a deep breath. “The altercation grew physical with Mister Hickey—”

“Of course Mister Hickey is involved in this.”

“Lieutenants Hodgson and Irving dragged the two before the captain,” he reports. “Mister Darlington is convinced Mister Hickey has been stealing from him. He noticed a ring had gone missing -- belonged to his late mother, he says, and now he claims to have seen it on Hickey’s finger in the mess.”

Edward takes a deep breath. This is the kind of thing he should have been informed of the second he returned to  _ Terror _ , hang the hour! Why on earth had the officer on watch not told him so immediately? Oh, Robert Thomas will wish tomorrow had never come when Edward finds him. “Stealing is a hanging offense,” Edward observes. 

Jopson shakes his head. “It is, Sir. But we could not find a ring amongst Hickey’s possessions, nor did he confess to anything. Nevertheless, Captain Crozier has sentenced him to receive thirty lashes in the morning.” 

Christ. “On what grounds?” 

Not that the captain needs a reason. Edward has been on many a ship, enough to know some captains just enjoy hearing the bite of the cat. He hadn’t taken Crozier for one of them, and perhaps under different circumstances he would not be. They’d lashed one man so far. Twelve for Bailey, who fell asleep at watch. Poor Bailey, who had gone so violently from this earth. 

“Disrespect,” Jopson says, archly, “and agitation, among others. Dirtiness.” Jopson looks at his cradled hand for a while. “He is to be punished as a boy, the captain said.” 

They stand in silence as Edward allows the words to settle. “Do you think it’ll work?” 

“Punishing Mister Hickey, Sir?” 

Edward nods. Jopson looks at him rather strangely. “I imagine Mister Johnson will manage, yes. It doesn’t seem to me that he will perform worse for lack of practice. Though if you are asking me if this punishment will reform Mister Hickey, I can’t rightly say, having not had much occasion to become acquainted with the caulker’s mate, Sir,” the steward opines. “Even if he is not repaired by it, it will surely serve as a deterrent to anyone else whose tongue has been set wagging.” 

Edward huffs. “With horses, I prefer rewarding good behavior. A lashing is just as likely to leave it snapping at your hand when next you try and feed it as it is to set it straight.” 

Jopson has only a pitying glance for him. 

“I expect we’ll see in the morning, won’t we, Jopson?”

+

"This man is about to receive the lash for violations of Ship’s Articles and for his unwise behavior exhibited previously. Let it be known and remembered by all here assembled that the ultimate responsibility for all that happens on a ship lies with her captain. The leader of an expedition is double responsible. As such, to the end of administering to our own duties, we must proceed with the punishment of men found guilty of violations, especially those whose offenses endanger the survival of a ship’s crew." Crozier’s speech is much belaboured, but his voice still carries through the mess, where  _ Terror’s  _ entire crew is assembled.

Considering they set off from Greenhithe well over two years ago, Edward thinks that only two lashings are an astoundingly low number. He takes his designated place at Crozier’s shoulder after he has come from collecting Lieutenant Irving and the caulker’s mate, keeping his eyes trained on  _ Terror’s _ wooden beams, and then when that does not serve to close his mind to the inevitable torrent of memories such punishments call forth, his eyes search out Thomas Jopson. Lord knows he can think of nothing else when he sees the pretty young steward, he may as well use that to his advantage just this once when he laments this fact otherwise. Jopson is standing with the rest of the stewards, stock-still and not a hair out of place. The sight is, for a moment, grounding. 

"Boatswain’s Mate Johnson--" Crozier calls the name of a man who, Edward understands, served with him in the South, on that torturous voyage that ran years longer than their own interminable mess of an expedition. It should give Edward hope, but when Lieutenant Irving releases his iron-grip on Hickey’s forearm, all he can think of is what he had said to the captain over breakfast.  _ Are we not at all concerned that Hickey will seek to revenge himself upon us?  _ and the blatant dismissal that had followed, as though Edward were a nuisance. 

He closes his eyes as briefly as he might without being thought to avert them out of disgust or fear. Before  _ Stop, you’re running her too hot, get back,  _ there had been  _ Captain Nicolas, respectfully, those are more lashes than any one human can tolerate, let alone— _

As his second Edward had been exempt from the threat of punishment, and the young AB  _ had _ been caught stealing off the ship without leave, by right of which Captain Nicolas could have seen him hanged. But might that not have been a mercy, in such a case? The young AB – Sutherland, that was his name – had languished in a feverish state for weeks before succumbing to the damage inflicted by the lash.  _ Vindictive’s  _ boatswain had been a touch more enthusiastic in distributing kisses with the cat than Mister Lane’s mate.  _ Terror’s  _ boatswain himself finds the exertion involved in corporal punishments too distasteful, and gladly delegates such a task. But he, too, stands assembled with the rest of the crew, wearing matching expressions of either apprehension or some brave attempt at stoicism. No one is glad to be here save for Captain Crozier, Edward thinks, who looks drunk on power rather than whiskey for a change.

Hickey is stripped until he clears his throat and proceeds to remove his shirt himself, standing bare in front of sixty-odd men. His eyes he keeps trained on Crozier, and Edward is wary of what he sees in them. While yes, on  _ Vindictive,  _ some of the punished men had been cut by the rest of the crew, most soon gathered a flock of sympathizers around them that only grew after each perceived injustice. In Edward’s experience, that is how it tends to go, unless the charge is something heinous, something that threatened the safety of them all. And what has Hickey done but give voice to issues many of the men feel in their bones?

Edward despises him, certainly, but the crew does not – do they not feed his delusions of resisting the cruelty of an oppressive captain with only his roguish charm and bold words? Do they not make a martyr of him thus?

He understands they cannot excuse Hickey’s offenses, but this spectacle — Hickey could not have planned it, surely, but all the same he will fit it into the hand he intends to play.

When he is first tied, Hickey looks for eye contact with the captain, but as bits of skin begin to come off, his eyes loll to Edward’s instead and stay there. For a while they are like a dead man’s, lacking focus. Whatever he sees reflected in Edward’s face, it soon snaps him out of that stupor. He comes back into alertness with grit teeth and sweat pearling on his forehead. Cornelius Hickey grins as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jopson is wrong, by the way: Antarctica is This Bloody Cold and more so, he just didn't notice because he wasn't wasting all his time pining.


	20. Tozer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm bad at responding to comments but I look at every single one I get at least a dozen times and smile like a distracted fool.

#  **Chapter Twenty - Tozer**

_ December 1846-January 1847 - Bathurst Inlet _

Mister Hickey is still waddling three days after his lashing.  _ Dirtiness,  _ they’d read out last. Funny little thing, Sol thought to himself, since the caulker’s mate keeps himself cleaner than most. Got up and walked away the second David Young started spitting blood, didn’t he? Couldn’t move away when the cat bit into him, poor bugger. Aye, Sol may not like the little man, but it’s no mean thing to suffer thirty lashes. And as a boy, too. Humiliation of that has gotta smart some more, surely. 

If he’d earned to keep his mouth shut the whole ordeal may have been worth it and they might’ve all slept better for it. But even as Sol passes by his table in the mess now, he can hear Hickey agitating away like he’s nothing better to be doing. 

Sol, however, has something better that needs doing. Trying to impress upon Mister Hickey the virtue of saving one’s backside isn’t on his list for today -- or ever, come to that. Hickey’s backside don’t concern him, and if Golding and some of those other nitwits want to indulge him, that’s purely their own business. 

“D’ye see the poor sod?” Hedges murmurs as they pass. “Wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Still seeping through his bandages, I hear.”

“Keep talking about Mister Hickey, and I’ll have you standing duty til you drop, Corporal.”

Sol really doesn’t want to think on Mister Hickey more than he absolutely has to. Today, of all days. Today, he’s looking for a gift. 

He’s never had a lover -- well, lover’s decidedly the wrong word, isn’t it? Sol’s never had an  _ arrangement _ on board a ship overlap with an occasion for gift-giving. Aye, and even if he had, the pure fact of such an arrangement existing doesn’t call for a gift. Tommy though -- Sol reckons he’s worth something, at least. If only because he hasn’t so much as said an untoward word in the presence of Sol’s men that might suggest there to be more between them. Good for a chat, too, is Tommy. He’s long since learned that.

“Where’s my present then?” Billy asks, catching Sol rummaging through the sea chest he brought with him. Beats him how he caught on to what he was doing so swiftly. Knows him too well, Billy does.

“Mind yourself, Private Heather.” 

“All right, all right,” Billy laughs, raising his hands peaceably. “Were kindly meant,  _ Sergeant Tozer _ . Just a bit of teasin’, is all.” 

Sol’s indignant response only sounds like he’s readying spittle, carrying none of the disdain he’d meant to imbue.

“Grown on you, has he?” 

“I’m looking for the lock of hair your mother gave me when I left her bed, Billy,” Sol grinds out. “Shove off.” 

“I’m not surprised,” he continues, “he’s a good lad. Trying to make up for being shite these past months, are you?” 

Sol sighs, giving up. “Something like that, yeah.” Not a second later, he finds what he’s looking for. “Here we are, then. What’d’ye reckon?” 

Billy’s face softens into a smile. Becomes him, in an odd sort of way. “Bet my grog he’ll swoon.” 

“Let’s hope not. Can’t have that.”

+

“Evening, Mister Armitage,” Sol calls out, having found his way to the small cabin allotted to the steward. Curtain’s drawn just now, but he can hear Tommy hustling about on the other side. The movements come to an abrupt halt. When he draws back the fabric he looks much concerned. 

“Everything all right, Sergeant?” 

“Fine, fine,” Sol insists, looking around for anyone that might be watching. Finding no one, he shoves Tommy right back into the shoe carton he calls a cabin and draws the curtain shut behind the two of them. 

“Not here,” Armitage hisses before Sol as much as laid a hand on him. 

“‘S not what I’m here for,” Sol retorts. Tommy straightens upon hearing that, curiosity piqued. 

“What are you here for, then?” 

Aye, that’s the question, isn’t it just? This whole notion seems rather more foolish now that he’s standing in front of the man, but much as he would have liked to, simply leaving the gift on Tommy’s berth would have left a lot more room for confusion. Might be Tommy will take it the wrong way. 

Sol clears his throat. “Close your eyes, Tommy.” 

Obediently, Tommy complies. His whole body sways towards Sol when he steps closer. Sol has the pleasure of watching his eyebrows climb up his forehead when he begins unbuttoning Tommy’s coat. He’s trying not to grin, Sol can tell by the minute twitches of his cheek. “‘S not what I’m here for,” he has the stones to mock. He does a fair impression of Sol though, he’ll grant him that.

“Quiet, you,” Sol shushes half-heartedly. He reaches into his pocket, careful not to prick himself on the needle he’s bummed off Billy exactly for this purpose. It takes some effort, pinning the thing in place without having Tommy catch wind of what he’s doing, but he manages, he thinks. “There we are.” 

Tommy blinks, confused. 

“Your coat.” Sol clears his throat again, embarrassed. God, but it’s dry as all hell. When Tommy has a good look at himself, he gasps all quiet-like. His eyes snap back to Sol, accusatory. Develops a bit of a stammer until he finally manages to find some sense. Doesn’t swoon. Looks like a near thing though. 

“Solomon.” There he goes again. “I can’t accept—“ 

“Sure you can, Tommy,” Sol dismisses his worries, “crack shot like you, we’d all be awfully proud to have you.” 

He has to tear his eyes away. The way Tommy’s staring at him right now is starting to get to him, sure enough. “Shouldn’t let someone else see it, though. Sew it inside your coat real tight so it don’t fall off.” 

“I’ll take it to my grave,” promises Tommy. “Where’d you get it?” 

“Were my own, once,” Sol shrugs. His face is all hot. Isn’t used to such admiration.“Kept it. Thought you’d like it. Suits you.” That little shoulder patch is the one he’d worn on the very first uniform they gave him after enlisting. It does suit Tommy, that hadn’t been a lie. Sure he’d look even better all done up in red. 

Tommy’s still staring, but he’s coming closer, too, wrapping his hands around Sol’s neck. Sol puts his own hands onto Tommy’s hips, keeping him in place. Doesn’t look like he wants to be anywhere else at present, but all the same he feels the urge to anchor Tommy to him. “What says Private Armitage then?” he whispers. There’s so little space between them that he can feel the tickle of breath on his face when Tommy laughs. 

“Thank you.” 

“Happy Christmas, Tommy,” Sol says. 

“Happy day, indeed,” Tommy muses. “I should like to give you something in return.”

“Don’t think of it like that,” Sol groans. His forehead drops, connecting with Tommy’s. Tightens his hands on the man’s hips. 

“Nothing I may do for you?” 

“Not now,” Sol insists. “And not here, neither, like you said. Go on and enjoy the celebrations -- I’ll come for you later.” 

“Is that a threat or a promise, Sergeant?” 

“Take your pick, why don’t you?” 

+

It’s not quite the feast they had last year, but then, that’s not really what Christmas is about, is it? He’s in good company -- Wilkes is the one standing watch right now, so he’s off and gone while Sol can enjoy playing a round of cards with Billy and Private Daly. One of the officers leads all the willing men in song, and it’s no concert, true enough, but it’s not half bad neither. 

Hickey’s amongst those gathered to sing, Sol notes. He hadn’t taken him for one so inclined, and judging from the way he’s glaring at Lieutenant Irving, there’s something more to his choices than a sudden love for gospel. Looks like a man plotting, the caulker’s mate.

He’s been wondering if he ought to say something to one of the officers -- to Little, perhaps. They stand watch together often enough to have built something like a rapport by now, he thinks. But what would he say? Reasonable to suppose they already know he’s stirring the pot like he’s out to replace Mister Diggle. It’s what they lashed him for, after all.

And Little’s been looking increasingly exhausted. Those bags beneath his eyes weren’t half so strong when they set out. Something’s running him ragged, sure enough, but he’s still got a pair of eyes to see Hickey’s treachery for himself. He ought to use them every once in a while.

No, Sol will do nothing until it’s ordered of him. 

+

The day’s bloody cold. Even through his slops he’s half frozen through before they as much as bring their sled to a halt. “First days of the year,” Hartnell says wisely when Sol grumbles, rubbing his hands together expectantly. “Always the worst, those are.” 

Right. He’d know, sure enough. Might be that’s why Fairholme picked Hartnell to come along on a hunt. Distraction. Hunting in winter. Christ, they don’t make it half-hard to keep all toes, do they?

“We’ll split up,” the lieutenant announces once they’ve reached land -- not that it looks much different to the frozen waste that’s got  _ Terror _ and  _ Erebus _ locked in. “That way we can cover more ground. Hartnell, you’re with me. Seeley, you’ll go with Mister Collins. Mister Armitage can join Sergeant Tozer due south. We’ll reconvene here in an hour.” 

Tommy falls into step beside him, more quiet and pensive today than is his habit. Chatty, usually. Sol’s not about to pry out of him what’s twisted his knickers -- that ain’t the way -- so he just walks on, occasionally glancing sideways. He tells himself it’s to make sure Tommy is keeping pace, but he can hear that all right. Any game is bound to hear them coming from a mile away -- that is, if it doesn’t smell them first. 

Nothing grows here, he thinks, sweeping his eyes over a barren wasteland of ice. Four miles more to the nearest shrub, and that one’s bound to be a pathetic little thing. What would something worth hunting be eating out here? Rocks? 

“Reckon we won’t find much to shoot today,” Tommy grouses after a quarter of an hour has passed in silence. 

“Fowl, maybe,” Sol suggests, spitting out the lingering taste of breakfast veal. “Could be there’ll be a flapping of wings soon.” 

“Let me know when there is, would you?” 

Sol hums. He said he wouldn’t pry, but then he suddenly can’t help himself. Tommy looks so God awful strange pouting away as he does. “Something the matter with you, Tommy?” 

He smiles -- why, Sol doesn’t know, when his words are what they are. “D’you suppose we’re done for?” 

“Eh?” 

“Mister Blanky keeps yapping on about the fact that it’ll be such a cold year.” Tommy rolls his shoulders. Flexes his fingers. “Might be no thaw. Might be that we’ll be stuck in another winter.” 

“He said that to you?” 

“Might have overheard something,” Tommy admits, “and  _ inferred _ .” 

Sol frowns. 

“And Mister Hickey says he thinks there’s something seriously wrong with the cans.” 

“Aye, some of them have gone off,” Sol sighs. “No secret, that. It’s what has us going out hunting in this bloody cold.” 

“He reckons it's something else,” Tommy continues. “Said he’d been caulking in sick bay, and--” 

“Went snooping where he weren’t supposed to and heard something he didn’t like?” Sol scoffs. “There’s a saying for that, I know there is.” 

“My mother used to ring my good ear whenever she caught me at it,” Tommy agrees, “but I never stopped. Wouldn’t ever have learned anything otherwise.” 

“A little pervert, were you?” 

“Nothing such as that,” Tommy sneers, giving him a look of severe reproach. “She’d make me wait outside the door whenever we were at the doctor’s. Wouldn’t have known she were sick...” He trails off, licking his lips. “Something’s moving. Fifty feet out or less. Can you see it?” 

Sol narrows his eyes. Tommy’s right, by God. The light’s sparse -- they have to make do with a bit of moonlight -- but the wind carries the sound right to them. 

“Blood on the shale, too,” Sol whispers. That scent’s unmistakeable. “Sounds like we’re interrupting lunch.” He swings his rifle off his back, checking briefly to make sure it’s loaded right as rain. 

“Even if we did catch something, sure it’d go straight to the wardroom,” Tommy murmurs, crouching next to him as he readies his own gun. He’s not wrong. Back in England he might now swing an arm over Tommy’s shoulder and direct him to the nearest print shop, get him acquainted with a certain type of literature, a certain type of working man, a certain kind of organization. They’re not  _ in  _ England, however, and Sol concedes that these are extenuating circumstances. Some kind of leadership is good and necessary. 

Is he supposed to deny that every man deserves rations that don’t starve him? No, course not. He can’t. But if he agrees with Tommy now he’ll never hear the end of Hickey's perceived abuses of authority at the hands of their officers. They’re keeping things from the men, that’s obvious. Only Sol’s still hoping they have a good reason.

“And the gunroom, sure enough,” Sol grins, opting for a jibe instead. “‘Means you can sneak a bit for yourself. Have yourself a treat, eh, Tommy?” 

Aim’s hard when it’s dark as it is, but he knows he’s made the shot. There’s a whinnying sound. He’s already on his way towards the creature, ready to put it out of its misery. Should have got it between the eyes -- would have, if the light had been better. 

“Caught itself a snow bunny,” Tommy observes the dying fox when he’s caught up to Sol. “Bit far out for that kind of game, isn’t it? Reckon it got lost.” 

“Might be,” Sol says. “Can’t take the thing back. Not enough left to scrounge a half-decent meal together for even three men.” Tommy gives him another very odd look for that. “Lucky it’s just the two of us, then. Could do with a bite, me.We can clean it while we wait for the vultures.” 

“You know I don’t think they have vultures in the arctic. Owls, maybe? Other birds are bound to have migrated.” 

Sol gives him a look. Once he’s laid down his greatcoat on the shale, he pats for Tommy to join him. “I ever tell you how I learned to shoot?”

“No,” Tommy responds, sounding slightly morose. “You haven’t done much talking at all, I suppose.”

Well, he knows that. Doesn’t mean he can’t change his mind, does it? “My father -- a right bastard he was, mind -- he was a shoemaker in Axbridge. Had a nice little house at the end of the street, backyard stretched into the forest. My Ma, she kept chickens, and one year -- I must have been seven or so -- we had a fox, redder than this here one, sneak in and make off with one, then another. Went on for three days, but my father weren’t going to do nothing about it, was he? Ma begged him, sure enough, but he said ‘Gillian, you wanted those Goddamned chickens, not me.’”

He’s pulled the skin off the rabbit now and so discards it as far from his spread overcoat as he possibly can. Looks like the fox went for the organs first; there’s a fair bit of leg and back left over. He continues, “being of a nervous disposition, Ma weren’t ever going to go near a fox. So I took my father’s pistol off the wall and thought to myself:  _ Sol, how hard can it be? You’ve seen men shoot at the faire half a hundred times. _ ”

Tearing off one of the rabbit’s hind legs, he passes it to Tommy. 

“Turned out to be much harder than I thought. Scared off the fox rightly enough, but between the two of us I looked the worse.”

“Shot yourself in the foot?” Tommy asks around a mouthful of cold rabbit. Sol laughs, taking a first bite as well. It’s not the worst he’s ever tasted. Fresher than anything he’s had in months, even if the meat is as good as frozen. 

“Nah,” he says, “had the gun pressed up against my stomach to keep it steady. Recoil got me. Bruises for weeks.” Not that he needed a gun for that, mind. 

“What happened to your foot, then?” Tommy presses on, insistent. “Looked all wonky when I saw it.”

He takes a deep breath. The lie about the African coast is already on the tip of his tongue. And then something -- he can’t rightly say what -- moves him to tell the truth. “Had an extra toe on that side, would you believe? My father chopped it off one morning.”

“That’s awful.”

Tommy looks aghast when Sol steals a quick glance at him. Wiping a hand across his mouth to clear away blood from their impromptu meal, Sol huffs. “He were awful, yeah. Done drunk himself to death by the time I was eighteen. Good thing too, or I would have shown him how much my aim had improved by then.”

He clears his throat. “How about we haul that fox back? Reckon the others caught nothing so fine.”

“Solomon?” 

“Ye--” He turns his head to find Tommy closer than expected. There’s a brief touch of lips warmed by rabbit blood, over before it fully registers, and then Tommy pulls away like he gave himself a fright. Sol’s at a loss as to what he might say in response to that. “--ah?” 

Tommy clears his throat, awkwardly, and moves to retreat. That how he wants to play it, is it? Can’t be arsed doing such a thing in half-measures. Sol catches his sleeve and finds the words come easily enough, uttered softly. “And where d’ye think you’re running off to now, Tommy?” 

“Wha-- I--the sledge, I thought --”

“C’mere.” 

His cap falls by the wayside when Sol pulls him close and tilts his face up with both hands to kiss him properly. They’ll take what little time they have -- the lieutenant and Hartnell went in the opposite direction, aye, but they need to be heading back any minute now. Tommy’s fingers dig into his collar, spurring him on to get a hand on the small of his back and press in closer still. His lips are shiny and puffy when Sol has to break away. He’s panting, breathless with it and sporting a rather distracted look about the eyes. A point of pride, that is, for Sol to be the cause of it. 

Doesn’t bode well to dawdle, however; even nourished by fresh meat, the cold gets to you. When he draws away, he puts a single knuckle to Tommy’s cheek, pushing gently. Tommy’s eyes close on a smile.

+

“Sergeant, it’s Mister Darlington!” Private Hammond comes running up to him from the bow when Sol reaches the foggy deck. He doesn’t have the watch, but he was awake at the first scream. Instinct, that is, and a light sleep to go along with it. “He fell over the gunwale! I recognize his neckcloth.”

He’d rushed on deck to find it in disorder and not being able to see more than six feet ahead of him. Bloody fog -- no better than a snowstorm. 

“Wake--” Sol belays the order he was about to give. No use waking a captain who never bloody shows his face, is there? “Who has the watch?”

“Mister Hornby, Sergeant,” Hammond reports. “But Lieutenant Little is due to come up next.”

“Good,” Sol exhales. “Fetch him, Hammond. Take your legs in hand and shift it, Private. ”

Sol peers down over the bow. He can’t make out much with so little light. Hammond had a lantern with him, at the very least, but still, that must have been a challenge. “Mister Darlington? Are you alive, down there?” Should have asked Hammond to leave that lantern behind. Little’s lumbering footsteps join him only a minute later, though his hair is so disheveled it is likely he was asleep until very recently. Good for him. Must have been woken by the screams also. Appeared on deck too quickly for Hammond to have fetched him.

“Aren’t you off duty, Sergeant?”

“Aye,” Sol sighs. “Hammond’s screams woke me, and I’m up now.”

“Hm.” Little tries to hold his lantern over the side of the ship. Doesn’t help much. “Nothing for it, I suppose. We’ll have to deboard.”

The ice gives a horrifying groan, encroaching on  _ Terror’s  _ wooden bow. Reinforced with steel, she is, but nature finds a way. He’s gotten used to the screams of the wind, but it’s not impossible that something’s out there. Paranoid watchmen have spoken of something moving out on the ice.  _ Too large to be one of them bears _ , say men who have never seen one up close with certainty a missionary might envy.

Sol doesn’t fancy going out into the squall, but as the lieutenant said: there’s nothing for it. “Lead the way, Sir.”

+

When they do reach Mister Darlington’s body -- for it is only a body now, Sol supposes as they turn him over -- his face all crushed beyond recognition. He must have landed head-first. Got to hold the lantern up real close. Sol huddles around it, trying to stop the wind from blowing it out and leaving them in total darkness.

“He was on watch?” Little asks, tugging off one glove to feel for a pulse and check for breathing.

“Heard him called to it before I went to bed, aye.”

Little frowns down at the body a while longer. “I am reluctant to make the silence I ask of you contingent on something, Sergeant. I would prefer for you agree that  _ Terror’s  _ crew will fare better for not knowing exactly what happened here until such a time that a captain decides it is best.” 

“And what’s happened, Lieutenant?” 

“I suppose it might have been an accident.”

Right. “Then there’s nothing much to tell, Sir, is there?” 

Little musters him. At last, he exhales. Looks to Sol like he’s been holding it in a while. “Have someone fetch a shroud to wrap him in and wake one of the doctors.”

Sol knuckles his temple. He’s got a reason, surely. They have some reason for what they order. They must. 


	21. Peglar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how this used to be updated twice a week?  
> We're way behind on editing -- global pandemic and all -- and while I'd be willing to post it unedited, I also want to give The People the highest possible quality of chapters, you know? Sorry for the delays and impatience thus created.

#  **Chapter Twenty-One - Peglar**

_ April 1847 - Bathurst Inlet _

He’s double-checking that their canned goods are properly stowed on the jolly boat when he spots John coming his way. It’s all in a glance. Over the buzz of men readying for departure they are unlikely to be overheard. “Here comes the lending library!” he teases merrily, grinning wider when he sees John’s answering smile. 

“Just in time,” John says. He is indeed carrying a book in his hands. His gloves are wrapped tight around the offering, as though after all these years he could still be hesitant in presenting such gifts. 

“Will this be another Jonathan Swift, or are you sending me back to Herodotus?”

“Sadly there’s no more Herodotus,” John informs him. They’ve gone through all of it, Harry’s sure of it -- twice over at least, but who’s counting? The steward places the book on the cold wood they’re both leaning against, running his hand over it. “No,” he continues, “this is a comedy. I thought you could do with a bit of a laugh on your fifty miles.”

His hand squeezes Harry’s -- too briefly for a stray gaze to make something out of it -- before he makes a swift departure back towards  _ Terror _ , and then, likely after a cup of tea with his fellow stewards, back to  _ Erebus _ . Harry makes sure to secret the small volume away beneath his slops, keeping it out of harm’s way. 

“Scour the ice with Providence as your sure-footed guide and return safely with news that our long winter’s sojourn will soon lie behind us and we can finally raise our sails again and force this passage.” Sir John looks across the assembled crew, whittled away ever so slightly. It appears to Harry that he is pleased with what is staring back at him. 

“Graham,” he calls out, inviting Lieutenant Gore to step forward. “I appreciate you taking the cylinders.”

“It will be an honour, Sir, to venture on and deliver your words.” Harry has not had much occasion to take the measure of Lt. Gore save for the sparse trips he made to  _ Terror  _ during their stay at Beechey. What strikes a man about him at first is his affable, open face -- he has yet to find out more about his seaman-like qualities, but Harry reasons with himself that they would hardly have been saddled with an upstart for a first lieutenant. Sir John had his pick, after all. 

“Be sure to come back with a story,” the expedition leader in question urges. 

“Joyfully, Sir.”

“I only wish I could join in the outing,” Commander Fitzjames says, shaking the lieutenant’s hand as well. 

“Francis?” Sir John turns to his second, who responds with as curt a  _ sir  _ as Harry has ever heard from him. “Is there anything you would like to say?”

After taking a long gander at the lot of them, Captain Crozier elects only to say, “Travel well.”

“Right.” Sir John nods, swiftly turning from Captain Crozier. “Good luck, men.”

Commander Fitzjames leads the men in three cheers, and then they’re on their way, off like those heroes of old John would -- in rare private moments on land -- compare Harry’s body to. 

_ (Built like Plato, you are _ , he’d mused, one long finger trailing over Harry’s chest. 

_ Are you Socrates, then, John? _

_ Oh, I can’t hope to die even half so nobly as he,  _ John had grinned down at him.)

That reputed strength ought to come in handy now, Harry thinks as he straps into the harness and readies himself for days and days of pulling. 

+

“Doctor MacDonald was kind enough to lend me his journals from his time on Cumberland Sound,” Doctor Goodsir explains as he treks alongside them. “It was they who brought back the young native. Back to Aberdeen. Imagine!”

Harry looks at snow, ice, and more snow, and sighs. His breath warms the air in front of him for a beat, but it also taints it with his rancid breath. He longs for a bath, but  _ Terror  _ lies miles away, and since they left her Harry’s sweat has frozen salty layers into his underthings that itch and make him shiver in turn. Still, he pulls. 

“I - I don’t recall his name, but he was of the Inuk tribe.” Goodsir turns back, sounding wildly out of breath for someone that has not yet done any pulling. “Lieutenant Gore, do you...do you recall that Inuk man’s name?”

“I do not, Mr. Goodsir.”

The lieutenant has since proven that he does know his way around a great many of the problems one might encounter on the ice and has since risen greatly in Harry’s esteem, even if it makes no difference to their outward dynamic. Even officers one loathes must be obeyed, after all; nonetheless, it is good to know that the lieutenant sweats and aches as the rest of them. He has pulled the boat tirelessly alongside them and has not left his good humor by the wayside. 

“It was long and...terribly…native.” Goodsir seems to give up all pretense, then. “Please let me take my part, Lieutenant. You said to watch for three days, and I’ve done it. Now let me relieve someone who’s earned it.”

Lieutenant Gore brings the party to a halt, deciding to give Hartnell a break. Harry pities him -- for now he will have to walk, and as he cools down he will begin to shiver. If he weren’t so exhausted by nighttime that another minute of hauling might mean he would cough up his lungs, Harry would not stop pulling for all love. “There’s nothing more natural than pulling weight, Dr. Goodsir. Watch Morfin here in front and me with the corner of your eye. Match your strides. You’ll take to it, I know you will.”

He does not. 

+

Night falls on their sixth day when Lieutenant Gore decides to put an end to it. They’ve gone more than the ordered fifty miles. “We’ve built the finest cairn on the Nunavut shore I ever did see,” he proclaims, “but our hauling must soon come to an end. We’ll pitch our tents here and begin our journey back to the ships after we’ve each had some rest.”

They’ve found no trace of open water. Only ice -- as far as the eye can see, ridges and whole mountains have seemingly grown out of the ground, built by the pressure of the pack. Harry has grown mightily tired of ice -- Oh, to recall he thought it hauntingly beautiful when first they sailed into Lancaster Sound! They’ll have to hope the three other parties were more successful.

Goodsir volunteers to man the little stoves they’ve brought with them and soon begins distributing a can to each of the ravenous figures huddled around their campsite. Sergeant Bryant is taking a quick survey of their little camp perimeter. Harry’s stomach is cramping for something substantial after such a long day. The smell of Goldner’s makes his mouth water where usually he’d have to steel himself for the first few bites, until he’d burned his tongue on it enough to no longer care about the taste. Another thing he’s grown tired of, though the ice, at least,  _ had _ been good and beautiful and even awe-inspiring once upon a time. “Good thing we brought this little thing along,” Goodsir chuckles when he passes Harry his ration. 

“Nothing worse than having to eat those things cold,” Charles Best agrees around a mouthful. 

“Heavens,” gasps Lt. Gore, opening a little pouch with his mouth while the can balances precariously on his knee. Trust a lieutenant to bring salt and pepper with him. “Why would you ever?”

Best shrugs, shuffling around on his arse until he finds a more comfortable position. “Not enough time to wait for dinner sometimes, when you’ve the watch and Mister Wall takes his time with the preparations. Watch doesn’t stand itself well on an empty stomach.”

Next to Best, Hartnell chuckles. The spoon in his mouth bounces up and down as he does, catching the faint light of their little stove. “Better than nothing, Sir. The cold tins, I mean. Far better than nothing.” That might just be the first and only time Harry Peglar has heard Tom Hartnell’s laughter. He drops his spoon back into the can. “Go down better than the ship’s tack, too. Need half a day’s water ration to force those down your throat, Sir.” Harry almost asks Hartnell if he’s hit his head. Hartnell doesn’t talk unless pressed to, and he certainly doesn’t volunteer information.

“How revolting,” Gore claims, shaking his head, possibly forgetting that Hartnell is of  _ Erebus _ no longer. “Tell me next time. I’ll have Mister Wall give you some salted meat. Then you can keep warm chewing on that.”

Pleased mutters erupt around their little campsite. 

“I’ve always found Mister Diggle’s biscuits perfectly edible,” Harry says, though he supposes that, given enough time in the ice, that too will change. The weevils have tucked tail and run in such temperatures, but a more hardy sort is sure to replace them soon enough. 

“Yes,” Gore, one of the few men who have had the privilege of sampling food from both ships, agrees. “He’s not so fond of the salt as Mister Wall, I find. I happen to share his tastes.”

“Salt’s the only thing that makes me stomach the tins,” Des Voeux claims, yawning loudly into his fist. “Can’t do without it, so I’d urge you not to tell Mister Wall to cut back, Sir.”

Something wet lands on the shale next to Harry, almost catching his boot. Morfin has spit out his food. “Sorry, Mister Peglar,” he grumbles, wiping a hand across his mouth. “Mine’s spoilt.”

“Give it here, Morfin.” Goodsir holds out his hand. When he takes a whiff, his face contorts most comically. “Can’t believe I didn’t smell that as I prepared it. My apologies.”

Gore retrieves Morfin’s lid, holding it up to the sparse light they have. It’s never dark here for long in the summer, but when it is you’re hard-pressed to see your own hand in front of your face. “It’s bent,” he declares. “Blown outwards. Can’t risk eating that.” 

He rummages around in the provisions, until he comes up with one that seems perfectly intact. “Here, Mister Morfin, you can have mine, I’ve not had more than one spoon. Bit of pepper in it -- that’ll take away from the foul taste no doubt currently in your mouth.”

Harry’s can of  _ beef roll cabbage soup  _ is empty by the time Lt. Gore asks Mister Des Voeux about his time in the Levant. 

“--ordinarily, I’d say: let them destroy each other, and to us go the spoils,” Mister Des Voeux recounts, “but our Mister Napier decided it’d be a better call to ensure a sixteen year old can rule over the Turks entire.”

“Napier’s decisions certainly did not endear him to his superiors,” Gore laughs. “Initially, at least. I hear very little differed in the treaty, compared to the private arrangement he came to with that Ali fellow.”

Mister Des Voeux grins into his can. “We saw some fighting, when we sailed to retake Acre, but it was over much too quickly for us to truly have to engage. We’d all been trained by Captain Hastings, you see, on the  _ Excellent _ . Just over two hours after the first shot we hit the jackpot: their powder magazine. Never seen an explosion like that, not even in China. The city was taken that very night.”

Harry had read about that battle when he returned to England in due time. It had been old news by then: over a thousand casualties for Mehmet Ali’s men, compared to a meagre eighteen British. 

“We ought to be glad you were not even wounded, Mister Des Voeux,” Gore praises, “else we would have had to make do without your very competent orienteering.” He stands, patting down his slops. Fresh snow has gathered there already. “We’ll take the watch in turns, men.”

+

Throughout the night Harry lies wide awake, wedged between two snoring figures. Sergeant Bryant has cozied up to his backside, no doubt dreaming of something pleasant if the state of him is anything to go by. Harry would dearly like to move, only Best’s knee is already hooked beneath his ribcage, and he can’t even inhale deeply for fear of spearing his lungs on it like a pig in a butcher shop’s window.

He feels Bryant’s hip twitch towards him. Ought he wake the marine? Sergeant Bryant does not seem the type to take embarrassment lightly. Harry might feign a sneeze, pretending to be asleep but startling him awake. But that’d run the risk of waking every poor sod wedged into the tent, and from the cacophony of snores it appears to Harry that he alone suffers from this wretched insomnia. 

Perhaps it is divine intervention then, that the first grain of hail knocks the canvas of their tent right against Sergeant Bryant’s head. Lieutenant Gore, to his great credit, is up and at it within a second, urging them to the boat. “We’ll tip her, men. Let’s use her sturdiness for shelter.”

Eight dirty men huddled beneath an overturned boat is a novel experience, Harry supposes. But it isn’t awful. The sweat of this last week clings to all of them, but does one not join the discovery service in the hope of broadening one’s horizons? Why miss out on this? In any case, he can hardly smell the others over his own stench. “Something’s moving,” Hartnell whispers. “Out on the ice.”

“That would be the hail,” Bryant hisses. 

“We’ll wait it out,” Lieutenant Gore decides, sounding cheerful. “Anyone got a story worth sharing? I imagine we’ll be here for a while.”

There’s hardly anything worth sharing which hasn’t been dragged out once or twice during their campfire dinners. As the hail increases, it drowns out the voice of anyone who might have come forward to offer entertainment. In the end, eight men pass about three hours sitting quietly. It feels a bit like wearing a wooden bowl over your head and being subject to the constant drumming of a spoon against it. He can’t fathom how Morfin is fast asleep, his arms crossed over his chest like an elderly man in a rocking chair by the fire. Cozy as anything. 

“I’m telling you,” Hartnell repeats, eyes closed, once the hail has died down. “There’s something out there.”

“And what would be--” Bryan’t protest is cut short by a most ungodly noise. Harry has never heard the like. Gooseflesh races up his back, hard and fast. Might that have been an animal? What kind of creature would possible be capable of such a sound?

Gore says, “We’ll lift the boat on one side, get a good look around. I believe Mister Hartnell has the right of it.”

No one balks at the heavy lifting, not under the current circumstances. Whatever is out there, they had better get the measure of it, and soon. 

“That’s a bear,” Des Voeux whispers, having crawled out below the boat on his elbows and right back inside. “Jesus Christ, that’s a monster of a bear.”

“Let me,” Bryant scoffs, shouldering his rifle before crawling out himself. About a minute later, a shot goes off, followed by a whine. They manage to turn the boat over, though Harry’s sure his back isn’t the only one aching in vehement protest. Now, for the first time, Harry gets a look at it as well. The sun’s beginning to rise, and the beast indeed towers over man. Its white fur drenched red by what might have been a fairly recent meal -- but no! The sergeant has wounded it. 

“It appears,” Doctor Goodsir says, “that this ursus maritimus is in the family way. She’ll--”

“--likely want to use us to grow her baby, Doctor?” asks Des Voeux, readying his own gun. Harry’s fingers itch for a trigger, though he is the furthest thing from a good shot for never having got to practice. Even in the fighting he has seen, he had favoured the blade. How he wishes he had something, anything in his hand he might use to defend himself!

“Sergeant Bryant may have  _ greatly _ angered her.”

“Aye, Doctor, we can see that,” Hartnell snorts. 

Des Voeux’s shot lands in the bear’s left flank. She comes at them hard, limping now. It’s not their right, Harry realizes with a startling squeeze of his heart when the beast’s whine grows sharper. They are strangers in this creature’s land. He sees the beast’s black eyes glow almost red in the morning light, and still she does not give up her pursuit. She’ll take them down with her before she— 

“There we go,” Bryant sighs, spitting at the shale. 

The bear has fallen, though she twitches on the shale like a fish out of water. Her whines are no longer quite so frightening. Harry’s chest clenches tighter still. “Got her right between the eyes,” Des Voeux grins. “Well done, Sergeant. Stick that to Tozer when we get back. ”

“We ought to put the thing out of its misery, and soon,” Gore orders. Sergeant Bryant and Des Voeux inch towards the whimpering bear to do just that. Lieutenant Gore turns back towards his men with a triumphant smile. “Well, men,” he grins, “I believe we’ve just found the story we’ll bring home.”

+

Once Harry has deposited Mister Des Voeux in  _ Erebus’ _ sick bay to part with one of his toes and returned John’s comedy to it’s rightful owner, he feels the exhaustion of the last week and a half take hold of him. Lieutenant Gore had dismissed him happily. Harry thinks of the creature’s eyes, reduced to staring lifelessly up at him from the jolly-boat. Only a pelt now, one to add to the rest. How she had whimpered in the end. 

“No fair leads to follow, Mister Peglar?”

He turns to see  _ Terror’s  _ ice master descend from the rigging. His pipe is already lit, and there’s a hardness to his otherwise delighted face. 

“None so fine, Mister Blanky, but we might have luck up until August.” He removes his cap, eager for some time at the basin. A bath would be the ticket just now, but he has no hope of that until the Pacific opens to them. He’ll have to settle for scrubbing the salt from his skin and trying not to bleed out for it. “What says the ice here?”

“It’s gone and given us pups,” Blanky rasps, coughing on his pipe. “Two of them. In June. Damned cold year, this is.”

“Worse than last, do you reckon?”

“Bloody cold. Unusually cold, I’d say.” Blanky looks thoughtful. “Tell you what -- if the ice breaks by September, I’ll give you the last of my tobacco.”

“Wouldn’t put you out.”

“Oh, I’ll run out before September anyway,” Mister Blanky dismisses. “I’m trying to swindle you out of yours, take no note of me, ‘Arry.”

“I hear Lieutenant Little has been laid out?” Harry had been dismayed to hear it until John had assured him that the doctors were expecting a full recovery. He likes  _ Terror’s  _ first lieutenant. Stiff as he keeps his back, you gain the impression that he can bear a great deal for the men under his command. These days they see him more than they do their captain. 

“Snow-blind,” Blanky tells him. “Hodgson had to go and report to Sir John in his stead. He’ll be right as rain in a week at most.” They stare off into the distance, companionably. “Good thing, too. If I didn’t have his eyes to read him I’d never know what he’s thinking. Doesn’t say a bloody thing unless you pull it out like snot from his nose, our Edward.”

“Are you  _ Terror’s _ eye master as well, Mister Blanky?”

“All in good time, Mister Peglar. You never quite master that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Look, if you want me to ramble at you about 19th century naval history, leave a comment. I'm in too deep. Tell me to stop on [ Tumblrdotcom ](https://annabrolena.tumblr.com)


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